


Pumpkin Spice

by woodswit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Background Jon/Val, Both Jon and Sansa grow as people, Coffeeshop AU, F/M, Jon and Sansa are professors, Mistakes Are Made, Pypar/Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-10-19 19:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswit/pseuds/woodswit
Summary: Summary: That awkward moment when you go to take a stalker picture of the cute but mean guy in the coffee shop with your phone and forget to turn off the flash. Jonsa Coffeeshop AU.





	1. Chai

**Author's Note:**

> This is cute and meant for fall and a little bit angsty and very, very silly. Not sure how long it'll be!

_ **Arya: maybe he jsut has rbf** _

Sansa stealthily peeked at the subject in question over the edge of her MacBook. For now, at least, her subject was engrossed in a heavy textbook, one hand fisted in his dark, mussed curls and the other splayed over the textbook to keep it open. _Nice hands_, she noted, almost reluctantly, as though trying to find fault with them and failing to do so. Angular. Strong. She hastily looked back down at her mobile—she couldn't remember the last time she'd admired a man's hands and she was _so not_ in a place to be doing anything like that right now.

_And I probably will never be. Not while he's still alive._

_ **Sansa: rbf?** _

_ **Arya: resting bitch face duh** _

Sansa glanced at him again. Resting bitch face. Maybe that was all it was. There was a sullenness to his pretty mouth, a natural furrow between his brows as though he was constantly locked in deep, angst-filled thoughts about the doomed, hopeless nature of the universe. Maybe it was just his face. Maybe he was in fact the happiest, most optimistic person in the world, and she was just making assumptions.

He glanced up at her suddenly—he was definitely scowling now—and she felt her cheeks grow hot as she scrambled to appear absorbed in her own work.

Dammit. Caught.

Now that distraction was gone and she'd have to pick a new one.

Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up her mug of chai and tried to focus on the near-painful heat of the blue and white chinoiserie mug. She had learned to focus on silly things—things like sulky handsome men in coffee shops and too-hot mugs and stupid text messages—any time she felt scared, and today had been worse than usual. Usually she could at least absorb herself in her work during the day, but today even the wonders of anthropology could not hold her focus.

She had thought she was improving, had thought that after months of looking over her shoulder, of jumping at every creak and thud in her flat, of lying awake staring at her ceiling drenched in guilt, that she was finally moving on. She hadn't had a nightmare in weeks and had even caught herself getting lost in her own thoughts on her walk home from campus each afternoon—she could not remember when she had last felt relaxed enough to lose herself in her thoughts. She had reveled in the sunset setting the golden leaves aglow, and the crunch of twigs and leaves beneath her feet, and the singular scent of autumn. She had begun to think she could be happy again. She had bought some new jumpers and scarves, giddily anticipating the cooler weather and the approach of winter, and had decorated her flat with a wreath of fake autumn leaves and a few pumpkins. She had rediscovered the Sansa Stark who would spend summers yearning for autumn, who would buy Halloween decorations in September. She had forgotten, briefly, the Sansa Stark she had been for years now. She had forgotten to be afraid.

It was so stupid, the thing that had set her off today, and no matter how many times she told herself it was silly—_he's not here; you would know by now if he had found you; he's already dating someone else so why would he bother with you?_—she could not seem to let it go.

She found herself scanning the sidewalk through the large window to her right, desperate for something to distract her, to soothe her. Students walked by in pairs, laughing and chatting, the wind toying with their scarves and cardigans. It was a perfect autumn day, crisp and sweet as an apple. No sign of him anywhere—and indeed the day seemed far too perfect to even allow his presence.

She was being ridiculous. She was being stupid. She was being weak.

As usual.

So she took another long swig of her pumpkin spice chai—Mr Brooding had rolled his eyes so hard it had nearly been _audible_ when she'd ordered it; he'd been standing by the bar waiting for his black coffee and she'd seen him flick those grey eyes over her and then away, his stupid pretty lips twitching as though trying not to laugh openly at her as he judged her. She had resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him before continuing to order an iced lemon cake, as she watched him take his black coffee in a black mug and walk to the little table in the corner that he always sat at.

She liked to think of him as the coffee shop's ghost. He always sat in the corner where the daylight couldn't quite reach, where the eaves of the ceiling met and angled low over his dark hair. He dressed all in black: black crewneck sweaters and black jeans and black boots and black glasses. He always looked irritated, but especially so if any of the other patrons made too much noise. Each day around three in the afternoon, after the schools let out, the coffee shop often filled with teenagers for an hour or two and they all took care not to tread too near Mr Brooding, because if they did he would fix them with a look so icy that satan would be strapping on his ice skates, for his look could have frozen hell.

He seemed to be near her age, and she only knew that he was some sort of professor at the university, just as she was. She had spotted him across the room at a few faculty events and on what she had learned to recognize as his motorbike, a black electric one that was smaller, better for the twisting side streets, zipping across campus. She never saw him talking to anyone, and she still did not know his name, but for three months—ever since she had got the job and had moved here to Winter Town—she had spent more time with him than perhaps anyone else here, and were the rest of her life not so miserable she would have found that thought alone devastating. Young Sansa Stark would not have thought that at thirty-four she would have no friends, no significant other, no one to come home to... She shook off the thought.

Nearly every day she would step into Wolfswood Cafe, laden with books and her laptop and papers to grade, and she would see him there, hunched in the very back of the cafe, a steaming black coffee in front of him and stacks of books and papers around him. He never worked on a laptop, she'd noticed. He did everything in a graph-paper notebook, taking notes carefully, methodically. She liked to watch him write, too, and she stole glances when she could.

There was just something soothing about seeing him each day, and perhaps it was just having a face that was familiar, that she knew would recognize her, even if he seemed to find her ridiculous. Her students all vied for something from her: grades, special treatment, extra credit, insider information on upcoming exams or papers, and so even though she loved teaching, she found it draining, and part of her dreaded interacting with her students. She just wanted someone to recognize her, to look upon her without design or intent, to—perhaps—even wonder where she was on the days she didn't show up at the Wolfswood Cafe.

_ **Sansa: Maybe he does have RBF.** _

_ **Arya: but hes cute im guessing** _

Sansa flushed.

_ **Sansa: Why would you say that?** _

_ **Arya: bc youve texted me about him liek a thousand times** _

_ **Arya: take a pic! i wanna see** _

Sansa rolled her eyes and put her mobile aside again, and risked another glance at Mr. Brooding. He was grading papers now; he had a red pen and she watched him bite his lip as though irritated with what he had just read—and then watched him make a long, elegant, heartbreaking slash through an entire page, and briskly turn to the next page. Her heart sank. She had never been able to master such callous grading: even now, she graded her papers in pink pen and wrote long, desperately encouraging notes explaining each point deducted.

He glanced up again, and their eyes met briefly once again over the top of his glasses, and she saw his brows flick up almost imperceptibly. She looked away hastily, ashamed.

Her mobile buzzed once with a new text message.

_ **Arya: PIC OR DIE** _

_ **Sansa: No! That's creepy!** _

_ **Arya: o and staring at him nd texting your sis about him for months isnt????** _

_ **Sansa: I HAVEN'T BEEN DOING THAT.** _

A minute later, Arya replied with a series of screenshots of their conversations over the last months, mostly comprising Sansa complaining about Coffee Shop Guy rolling his eyes at her.

_ **Arya: WAT NOW?!?!?!** _

_ **Sansa: Okay, FINE. He is cute. I am hardly made of stone.** _

_ **Arya: PIC** _

_ **Sansa: No!** _

She shoved her mobile aside as though it were a particularly disgusting insect and, shuddering from embarrassment—she could not believe she had texted Arya so many times about this man—she tried in vain to focus on her work.

_ **Arya: PIC** _

_ **Arya: pretty pls** _

_ **Arya: ill love you forever** _

_ **Sansa: I'm your sister! You should already love me forever!** _

_ **Arya: so sad** _

_ **Arya: you wont take a pic** _

_ **Arya: a simple pic** _

_ **Arya: thats all i ask of you** _

_ **Arya: dont you love me** _

Mr Brooding was staring at his notebook, and she heard him let out a soft sigh of disgust before shoving aside a paper and snatching up the next poor student's work. He was utterly absorbed in thoroughly trashing the student's paper.

In other words, he was so focused... that he might not notice her.

No. She couldn't do it. She was getting talked into something, and she would not allow herself to be talked into it. This was ridiculous. There was absolutely no reason to take a picture of this probably very nice man, all for her sister's amusement.

_ **Arya: ugh youre such a wimp** _

She knew her sister was kidding; Arya was above all a mischief-maker and enjoyed any sort of shenanigans, and her relationship with her longtime boyfriend, Gendry, mainly consisted of Arya doing something foolish and Gendry chasing after her, half-admiring and half-horrified.

And yet something about those words made her stomach churn: _ugh youre such a wimp._

She was not a wimp. Definitely not. After all, it had taken bravery—a new kind of bravery, an un-glamorous sort of bravery—to break away from_ him_, had it not? She felt put-upon; she was not getting credit for the bravest thing she had ever done all because she was too ... something ... to tell anyone, least of all her sister, of what she had done.

She was definitely not a wimp. But she didn't want to take the picture.

And yet part of her did.

...Could she do it?

Maybe she was just looking for something to bond over with her sister, because ever since she had left him and not told Arya the cause—citing a mere breakup—there had been a chasm between them of which Arya was unaware but to Sansa meant the world. Why couldn't she tell Arya? They hadn't been close as girls but now that they were older they had an extremely close bond, a bond she felt she was betraying each time she neglected to tell her sister the real story about _him_.

Why couldn't she tell her?

_Ugh youre such a wimp_

She made a show of resting her elbows on the table, holding her mobile up close to her nose as though closely examining something tiny on the screen. Mr Brooding was making another long slash, this time crossing out an entire page and letting out a soft noise of disgust.

Her hands trembled finely.

Arya would do it.

She was not a wimp. She had left him, hadn't she?

But Arya would have left him sooner—no, Arya wouldn't have been with him in the first place. Arya, her secret hero, was the bravest person she knew and Sansa had spent so many dark nights wishing she could be more like her sister and her friends: Margaery, Daenerys, Missandei, Brienne...strong, beautiful women who could not be told what to do, who would never have allowed... She didn't finish the thought. She was nothing like her mother or sister, both of whom she so deeply admired. She wasn't like anyone in her family at all. She was a floating, inconsequential, pretty, flimsy girl, a girl who was silly and childish and who would never grow up.

Her thumb hovered over the camera button on the screen as her belly quivered. She was so meek, so timid, so fearful, that she could not even take a silly picture. She was such a wimp.

_No, I'm not!_

She swallowed, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears. Why was she making such a big deal over a stupid picture? _Just take the damn picture_, she told herself, as she framed Mr Brooding. The camera blurred slightly as her hands shook, but she held them still with an effort, and Mr Brooding—his dark curls, his soft lips, his glasses, his lovely hands—came into focus before her, and before she could think about it any further, she tapped the 'take picture' button.

FLASH.

This could not be happening.

She slammed her mobile down, her face growing hot as Mr Brooding's gaze jerked up and around, then to her. Across the shop they made eye contact and held it for a beat, longer than they ever allowed their gazes to graze each other. He was looking at her with something like disgust and outrage—as was his right. Her throat was closing up in panic as she heard a rushing in her ears.

"Did—did you just—" he began. His voice was softer than she would have expected, yet deeper, too. "—did you just take a picture—"

"N-no, of course not," she stammered, attempting to shove her mobile into her purse and only managing to send it with a loud clunk onto the hardwood floor between them, the screen face up, displaying the picture she had just taken.

Mr Brooding looked down at the mobile screen, then up at her once more. "O-oh. Well, i-it was an accident," she attempted, tossing her hair slightly even as her cheeks and neck flushed and her tongue was thick in her mouth. "I'm...bad with technology," she added, getting up and lunging for her mobile.

He was simply staring at her skeptically but also, in a strange and mortifying way, pityingly, like she was a foul and rather stupid animal that had got itself stuck somewhere and now he had the unhappy task of extricating her.

This was all Arya's fault. It would never have occurred to her to take a stalker picture of this man if not for Arya, and Arya was the sort of person who could handle these humiliating consequences—Sansa, on the other hand, was not. Face prickling with heat, Sansa straightened and shoved her mobile in her purse. "I was just leaving anyway," she said loudly, her back to Mr Brooding, as she frantically packed up her things. "Goodbye."

Mr Brooding said nothing; she felt his stare on her back as she more or less ran from her table, pausing only long enough to snatch up her mug, half-full of chai, and practically hurl it at the counter.

* * *

Obviously, she could never return to that coffeeshop again.

Her heart was racing, her stomach queasy with the rush of adrenaline, as she hurried back to her vintage yellow bicycle that she had chained up outside the shop as though she were a thief on the run. Her mobile was buzzing in her purse with texts from Arya but it seemed as though a past, dead universe were contacting her: a universe in which she had not utterly humiliated herself, separated by that fateful moment that the flash had gone off. A part of her vehemently hated her sister in this moment, and the rest of her was a single, vibrating nerve, shaken with horror.

What had she done? Why had she allowed Arya to talk her into taking a picture? Why had she allowed herself to be bullied into doing something she didn't want to do? And why, why was she so terrible with technology?

It took her three tries to actually unchain her bicycle because she was so lost in her own inner rantings. She was so stupid, so foolish, so—ugh. There were not even enough words to describe just how much of an idiot she really was.

She finally unchained her bicycle and matching helmet, and stuffed her purse in the basket strung to the back fender of the bicycle. Before getting on the bicycle, she shot Arya the picture.

_ **Sansa: I hope you're happy. My flash went off.** _

She crammed her mobile back in her bag and swung her leg over the bike and hopped on. Just as she began to pull away from the Wolfswood Cafe, Mr Brooding came out of the coffeeshop, sans bag and books. He was looking around, and their eyes met once more. He looked about to say something—but before he could, she pulled away and pedaled as hard as she could away from him, back to her flat.

When she finally got home, Arya had replied. Safe in her lovely flat—the part of her sudden life change that made her the happiest—she looked at her mobile.

_ **Arya: smooth sans. he looks kinda emo tbh** _

The minimal reaction to what seemed a momentous mistake was a letdown. After all that, that was all her sister had to say? Sansa furiously turned off her mobile, resolving to never let her sister talk her into anything ever again, and spent the rest of her day hunched at her little dining table, finishing her grading.

* * *

"She took a picture of you?"

Val was laughing at him behind him. Jon scowled at the cabinets as he finished washing the dishes. The air of tension that characterized their every interaction was present even now, when they were merely joking about a thing that had happened, a ripple of resentment and unvoiced anger that was a current beneath every word they spoke.

"Yeah, by accident. She more or less ran away afterward."

It was why he was so often at that stupid hipster cafe, truthfully. Val worked from home which meant that he could not return to their flat during the day to work, and he so studiously avoided his students—they always wanted to chat, especially the girls, for some reason—that his only choice was to work at a coffeeshop, and he could not bear to sit in the only other coffeeshop on campus, that commercial chain known as Greyjoys, full of teenaged girls sipping frappucinos and mums meeting for coffee dates with their epic double strollers and their soy lattes. The Wolfswood cafe was palatable to him: it was less occupied, it was not on the main drag of Winter Town, it had excellent espresso, and he could nearly always guarantee he would get a table in the very back of the cafe, away from people and noise, with enough room to spread out and get work done.

He had thought that telling Val about this single ridiculous event—a woman had taken a picture of him, by accident, in a cafe—had been a safe enough topic, and there were so few safe topics left between them these days. But he felt something solidify in the air between them, and he risked a glance back at his girlfriend. Val was looking down at her mobile, her jaw tense, pretending to be absorbed in her email.

"I mean, I guess that's what you get for not just coming home to work like normal people would, or working in your office," she said coolly, stowing her mobile. He turned back to the dishes.

"I can't get work done at home. I like to keep things separate," he replied, suppressing a spike of anger. She scoffed, and he then realized that this too—_I like to keep things separate_—was loaded, however unintentionally.

They rarely fought openly. They dealt in slammed doors, in terse silences, in fixed jaws and crossed arms. It was so unlike his first serious relationship—he and Ygritte had done little besides shout at each other and fuck—that at first he had found Val's coolness, the way she kept everything to herself just like he did, to be a relief. _See, you don't need to fight over every little thing_, he could remember himself thinking admiringly in the beginning. _Sometimes you have to let things slide, sometimes you have to just forget about grievances and frustrations._

"Was she a student?" Val asked, after the moment had passed, her voice stiff. Jon put the last dish away slowly—with nothing else to occupy his hands, they would have to actually spend time together. It was easier when there was a task at hand.

"No, another professor. I think she's in the social sciences; I've seen her around campus and at events." He did not mention the woman's red hair, almost gold in sunlight, and how he could recognize it anywhere; it was the most distinctive shade of auburn he had ever seen and the sight of it moved him, in the way that a strain of music could, touching at something otherwise inaccessible within him.

The grass was, he supposed, always greener on the other side. Yet he could count on one hand the number of women he had been interested in in his life, or even notably attracted to, and therefore they held more weight in his mind.

"Well," Val began, getting up from the counter stool, "I highly doubt it was by accident. You never believe me," she continued, coming to stand behind him, "but you're pretty cute."

She placed a tentative hand on his back, and he tensed before he could stop himself. She pulled her hand away. "I'm going to take a bath," she said in a frosty tone, and he did not relax until he heard the bathroom door slam.


	2. Latte

_From: Jeor.Mormont@unw.edu _

_Subject: Re: Yes, Halloween is Mandatory _

_Hi Jon, _

_I warned you in May. Then I warned you, again, in June, July, August, and September (see earlier in this email chain). You WILL put together a costume. You WILL drink hot apple cider. You WILL mingle with colleagues and students. This is non-negotiable, and having your significant other feign deadly injury to get out of it will not work this year. _

_Regards, _

_Jeor _

_Jeor Mormont, PhD_

_History Dept., University of Northern Westeros _

"You look pissed off. I mean, more so than usual." 

Jon looked up, scowling, from his laptop. Pypar, the manager of the Wolfswood Cafe and one of his closest friends, was strategically mopping near Jon, the better to bother him. "Missing the cute redhead?" Pypar sympathized. Jon accidentally knocked over his coffee, spilling espresso all over a pile of papers. He swore in Pypar's general direction as the man vaguely, uselessly dabbed at the papers with his black apron. 

"What redhead," Jon asked through clenched teeth, watching his written comments on one student's paper become blotted with coffee and therefore unintelligible. 

Of course, this was a front: he knew exactly who Pypar was talking of. He had not seen the redhead at the Wolfswood Cafe in weeks, not since The Incident. He had spotted her on campus: flashes of copper hair illuminated by the autumn sunlight from across the quad; her lemon-yellow bike chained to the bike stand outside of the Anthropology department; once, she had worn a plaid dress that had swished around her calves, and he had had to leave the library in a huff because he couldn't stop thinking about how her legs had looked.

"You are a _terrible_ liar," Pypar mused, uselessly mopping around Jon's chair so that its legs were rattled. "I mean, it's just pathet—" 

"—Pyp, I'm grading," Jon said flatly. Pypar snorted. 

"No you're not. You're scowling at your laptop and thinking about women," he said. "Besides, what's the rush with your work? History_ already happened_. It's not like it'll go away if you leave it for a bit."

"That is wrong," Jon countered. "In every way. That is the biggest barrier with historical analysis, that the evidence _physically deteriorates—_"

"—Whatever," Pypar waved him off. "When are you gonna sack Val?"

Jon fought off a groan. 

"Why," he began slowly, shutting his laptop, "does everyone seem to think that's an appropriate question to ask about the girlfriend that I live with?" 

"Because you're really bad at breaking things off. You stuck with Ygritte _twice_ as long as—" 

"—I'm going," Jon said shortly. 

"...To break up with Val!" Pypar said valiantly, as Jon shoved his things into his bag. 

"No, I'm going home for dinner," he said, and stalked out of the Wolfswood Cafe. 

The days were quicker, crisper. Jon liked autumn; he liked the shorter, more frenzied days, and he liked the gloom in the mornings against the fiery leaves, but lately, everything had felt tedious and dull. Nothing to look forward to, and everything to avoid. It had nothing to do with the redheaded professor; he did not know her and she had been nothing more than a background character in his life. Her absence meant nothing, and he did not look for her on campus, because that would be weird. 

Lately, everyone he knew seemed to want to talk about Val, save for him and Val. She came home late—though she worked from home—and he left home early—though he never taught classes before ten. Sam had got into the habit of shooting him simpering looks and asking him, every time they went out for craft beers—Sam's latest obsession—how things were, _you know, going. __At home. _When questioned about this, Sam always held up his hands as though Jon had a gun, citing that Jon had 'changed' and that he only 'cared for his friend.' Pypar and Grenn were both more blunt, telling him that he was 'acting like a little bitch.' 

Hell, even Mormont had commented on it. 

"The great generals throughout Westerosi history," he had begun ponderously one day as they'd been innocently eating lunch, "made _decisions._" 

Jon had at first assumed Mormont had lost his mind and forgotten that Jon was a professor, not a student. 

"I'm pretty familiar with this," Jon had pointed out after swallowing a bite of sandwich, "given that my dissertation was _about_ the decision-making of military figures in Westerosi history." 

"A great irony," Mormont had mused mistily. 

Jon felt he was very decisive and had posited that he would have made an excellent, influential general. He was reliably the first of their group to select a sandwich for lunch, leaving the others to ponder in his dust while he paid for his food. He had chosen a healthcare plan in seconds. He always knew who to vote for, and he had never once agonized over a mobile or laptop purchase. When he pointed these things out, Mormont had simply laughed at him. 

He had walked today instead of taking his motorbike, for the roads were too slippery from the recent rain, and now he walked along the main drag of Winter Town toward the flat he shared with Val. When he passed by the Greyjoys on the corner, he discreetly peered in through the large glass windows without pausing. It was the other common place to do work near campus, and he couldn't help but wonder... A flash of copper made his breath catch, made him walk faster. That confirmed it—it was not a schedule change that had resulted in her absence, but instead a conscious choice. She was probably embarrassed. 

He glanced again; he could not help it. He had to pause at the corner, anyway. He was just looking _around_, he wasn't looking _for _anyone. From this angle, _she_ was blocked by a display of pumpkin-flavored coffee, and Jon bit his lip and leaned, slightly, angling his head. He had to wait for traffic, anyway. She had her laptop open in front of her, and a man was talking to her. Everything in her body language—from the earbuds she had not removed to the way she was quite literally facing away from him—screamed at the man to _go away_. Jon watched for another second, but then the man set a hand on her shoulder, and Jon's feet were already turning him toward the entrance. He did not even have to contemplate it. 

He _was_ decisive. He was decisive when it mattered. 

Greyjoys was loud and so echoing that it made his teeth ache. That irritating singer Marillion was being blasted over the speakers, doing a saccharine and infuriating cover of an old jazz song, and Jon was nearly blindsided by a double-stroller as he made his way to the redhead. He barely dodged it, and reached them just in time to hear her let out an uncomfortable, _please-get-the-fuck-away-from-me-you-creep_ sort of laugh. 

"Hey!" he blurted out as he reached them. His voice sounded too loud, artificial. "Um, sorry I'm late," he said to the redhead, lowering his voice to its normal volume. "Got held up with some students." 

The man was wearing a small hat—Jon could not recall what they were called; Sam knew this sort of thing—and a tee shirt advertising Marillion. He was looking at Jon like he'd like to skin him alive. "Sorry, can I help you?" Jon asked him plainly, but just as the man was opening his mouth, the redhead spoke. 

"Oh, god, next time can you at least text? I had no idea where you were." 

She was much, much smoother than he was—and given their last encounter, this was shocking. Jon slid into the seat across from her as she pushed her papers and laptop to give him room. "I have to leave soon, and we've got a ton to do," she added impatiently. 

"Sorry. My phone died. I have to leave soon, too," Jon said casually, opening his own laptop as he glanced out the windows. The sky was darkening. In the old days, he would have come home to Val making dinner. _But she won't be doing that tonight, _he reasoned. No need to rush home. They hadn't eaten together in weeks. Jon looked at hat-man. "We're a little busy. Do you mind?" he asked coldly, watching him flush. The redhead smiled apologetically at him. 

"Thanks for chatting. Your band sounds really cool," she said kindly, and Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes as the man slunk off, back to his own table, where he sulked in their general direction. 

"Don't _encourage_ him," he muttered exasperatedly under his breath. 

"You are _frosty,"_ she replied in awe. "I mean, I've seen you do it before, but—" she halted, looking embarrassed. Jon's screen brightened, displaying the email that had so soured his day. 

"It's a developed skill," he dismissed, deleting the email. If Mormont brought it up, he'd feign IT problems. "Why didn't you just tell him to fuck off?" 

"Because there's always the risk he might follow me home," she shot back quietly. "It'd be a lot easier to avoid creeps if I were a man." 

Over the tops of their laptops, their eyes met. Jon was chagrined, and he watched her falter. She looked down, tucking her hair behind one lovely ear. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Jon replied. 

"No," she insisted, looking out the window. "You're right. I was being too nice. It's sort of a recurring problem," she confessed. "I'm not... I'm not good at saying how I really feel. I just kind of put up with things." At this admission, she laughed slightly. "Sorry, again. This got a bit deep a bit too fast. Thanks for helping me." 

Jon didn't reply. Something about what she'd said made him feel embarrassed. _I just kind of put up with things. _"Especially after I looked like a total stalker in front of you." 

"Forget about it," Jon said uneasily. He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, and he took it out to glance at it. 

** _Val: Where are you_ **

Jon swallowed and put his mobile away. He could get away with another ten minutes, tops, before he'd have to come up with some sort of excuse for why he had not replied, and 'saving the redheaded woman who took a picture of me' didn't sound like a good one. 

_I just kind of put up with things. _

"I'm Sansa, by the way. I see you on campus a lot. I'm in the Anthropology department." 

"Military history," Jon replied. "And I'm Jon." 

He might have asked her why she didn't come to the cafe anymore; he might have reassured her that it would be okay if she still wanted to, that they could put The Incident behind them, but the words got caught in his teeth. 

"Do...um, does your department participate in the whole Halloween party?" 

He raised his eyes to meet hers again. 

"Yeah," he said. He watched her bite her lip and smile. 

"Are you going? I just got the email about it. Now I have to figure out a costume." 

"Not if I can help it," Jon said grimly. "I've gotten out of it the past three years." 

He felt his mobile buzz again in his pocket. It would undoubtedly be Val, and wondering where he was would be perfectly normal, so why was he so resentful of her? _I just kind of put up with things. _He should have left. He should have at least replied. 

"Really? But Halloween's so fun," she said in surprise. "It's my favorite. And you've got so much to work with, with military history. You could do one of the Targaryen generals; they wore some ridiculous stuff." 

Jon tried not to grin. 

"I've written a lot about them, actually," he admitted. Sansa was smiling at him, head cocked to the side. _A natural listener, _he thought. "I don't think I could pull off their whole...thing, though."

"Too many rubies?" she wondered, and he could not stifle the half-scoff, half-laugh that erupted. He shook his head as she laughed. "Too much velvet? I think you'd look quite good in the red velvet, actually." 

"What'll you go as?" he asked, after their quiet laughter had died down. She flushed. 

"You'll laugh. I can't tell you," she said, shaking her head. "Guess you'll just have to come to the party to find out." 

He was grinning again, and that alone felt like a betrayal. 

"I'll consider it," he hedged. He felt his mobile vibrate again, and he glanced at it. 

_ **Val: I made dinner. ** _

_Fuck. _

"D-do you have to go?" She was blushing again; she had seen him looking at his mobile. "Um, don't feel like you need to stay. I've got this," she promised. 

"I—well, yeah. Let's leave together. You should just go back to the Wolfswood if you still have stuff to do. Pyp is still there and he's good at fending off creeps for his customers," Jon said, rising. "I think he'll be open 'til ten tonight." 

They each packed their things, and Sansa shrugged into a light green duffle coat that made her eyes brighter, made him think of the ocean in Essos lit by the sun. Hat-man was still staring at Sansa, and Jon wondered if he'd seen through their ruse. For good measure, he fixed hat-man with a long, chilling look, before turning back to pack up his things. 

It was dark now, and they left the chaotic warmth of Greyjoys to stand on the sidewalk. The main street of Winter Town was done up with twinkle lights that gave the street a cozy, candle-like glow, and around them, couples walked hand-in-hand to the few cocktail bars and restaurants scattered along the quaint street. "I'll walk you," he added. 

"Oh, you don't need to, really. It's not even seven o'clock," Sansa blustered, but all the same they fell into step together. "Thanks. It's a bit mortifying that I still have to be saved from weirdos. Especially since _I'm_ sort of your weirdo," she added. Their elbows brushed as they walked, and without acknowledging it they walked further apart. "Um, about that, by the way. I never explained it. It was an accident, seriously, though I'm sure it freaked you out." 

They were at the Wolfswood now, and Jon wished he had thought this through just a _little_ bit more. Pypar was changing out the blackboard sign outside the door and saw them approach, and this saved him from having to reply. His bright eyes were shrewd and Jon felt like he had been caught, though he had done nothing wrong. 

"You're back!" Pypar said to her as they approached, and Sansa laughed sheepishly. "I was worried you hated my coffee." 

"No, I've just been busy," she promised. Even in the darkness, she was radiant. Pypar could not take his eyes off of her, and it irritated Jon. Did he have to go after _every_ attractive woman? Could he not give it a rest?

"Well, good thing Jon brought you back," Pypar said now. "You both staying late?"

"I gotta get home," Jon explained, though he had to wrench the words out. His mobile had not vibrated again. He'd have to call Val as he walked back. Pypar and Sansa would be laughing together and he would be trapped in the tiny kitchen, eating in strained silence with Val. 

"Yeah, I thought you had to be home ages ago," Pyp said, and Jon wanted to smack him. "But I guess a stunning redhead would distract _me_ from dinner, too," he added cheekily to Sansa, who blushed and rolled his eyes. "See ya." 

Jon reluctantly turned from them after waving shortly to Sansa. He heard the door shut, and then the sidestreet was quiet, and there was no avoiding the texts anymore. Jon took out his mobile. He felt like a fool, like a jerk, like a liar. It was not a feeling that he liked. 

_ **Jon**:** sorry. Got held up. On my way now. ** _

He watched the three dots pop up and repeat, then disappear. No new text came through. 

_I just kind of put up with things. _

Why did this make him so uncomfortable? Why did he keep picking at these words like a scab?

* * *

"So Jon brought you back? Also, chai?" 

The Wolfswood was nearly empty. Pypar was wiping down the counter, and for a change of pace, Sansa sat on one of the barstools along the counter. 

"Yes, that'd be lovely." Buoyed by Pypar's friendliness, Sansa found herself talking more. "This is mortifying, but he actually fended off a weird guy for me," she admitted. Pypar grabbed a chinoiserie mug and glanced at her. "It's a little sad that I couldn't do that, at my age." 

"Nonsense. He probably loved it. If killing off his friends and family meant Jon could go back in time and be a knight errant, he absolutely would do it," Pypar joked. Sansa laughed, but something was still bothering her. 

As exhilarating as it had been—Jon was more sarcastic than she would have guessed, but also kinder—she _was_ actually mortified. It had been like something out of a rom-com, yet no one ever respected the women in those rom-coms, the ones who dithered and dallied and needed someone to swoop in for them. The man in Greyjoys had not even been threatening (ridiculous hat notwithstanding) but she had felt smothered and fearful as if he'd been holding a knife. The minute he'd set his hand on her shoulder—she shuddered. She was not even as spunky as the heroine of a rom-com. 

"You alright?" Pypar passed her the mug, and Sansa slid some money across the counter. 

"Yes, sorry. Thanks for the chai," she dismissed with a smile. 

No one was in view of her laptop screen, but Sansa glanced around anyway before opening a new browser tab. Her fingers hovered over the keys. 

_Why didn't you just tell him to fuck off? _Jon had asked. 

_Because, _she began, and though she knew the reason, she could not put it into words. But this—needing to be saved by men she did not know—was a clear sign that she probably needed to figure out how to put it into words...and how to change it. _It's a developed skill, _he had joked, but there was uncomfortable truth there. It was a skill she did not have, and one that would have served her well so many times in the past. 

_winter town therapists, _she typed in the search bar. 


	3. Pumpkin Juice, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is broken up in 2 parts, since the Halloween party was getting really quite long.

The History department had been tasked with hosting the Halloween party this year. Mormont had shuffled decorating responsibilities onto, of all possible people, Edd and Sam. The result was more or less absolute mortification for everyone else in the history department: as Jon approached the party in the twinkling night, crossing the damp grass of the quad, he overheard professors and students from other departments remarking on what were, at best, wildly specific niche decorations in opposite tonal directions. The building looked absurd.

"I mean, they're nerds, right?" Jon heard Renly snickering to his partner, whose legendary looks Jon had frequently heard gushing about. Renly was, unsurprisingly, dressed as one of the ancient gods on which he waxed philosophical often: the Many-Faced God. He had a ridiculous papier-mache construction of three faces around his head and wore billowing, sweeping robes; as usual, he wore his costume with an authority that no other man would have, and could have been photographed in black-and-white and been called 'art.' His partner was unimaginatively dressed like a knight. "There's only so much you can expect."

"Blind nerds," his partner remarked as they passed Jon. "Blind, depressed nerds."

Looking at the building, Jon could not completely disagree.

"Oh, hey there, Snow," Renly called, looking over his partner at Jon. He adjusted the several faces attached to his head. "I suppose I just lost a bet—I said you wouldn't show." 

Jon ignored him. 

Much of the university had taken over the centuries-old castle that had once been at the heart of Winter Town, and the History department had scored one of the main keeps of the old castle. Its crumbling stone facade, only kept functional by considerable donations, was currently trimmed with gloomy, melting candles that were surely Edd's idea, as they were both historically accurate and a fire hazard. Edd's other contributions were likely the series of morbidly-accurate skeletons hanging in the trees outside of the entrance, and carved jack-o-lanterns that were all modeled on gruesome, screaming faces, which dotted the broad stone steps leading up to the front entrance.

Meanwhile, Jon could assume that Sam's contributions were a series of cutesy cardboard cutouts of cats in various classic Halloween costumes, and large signs stating disturbing social statistics that only had vague references to Halloween. **_Illiteracy is at 14%! The highest it has been in ten years! BoOoOoO! _**And, **_Ghastly! __19% of women don't have access to healthcare!_ **

"Jon!" 

Several other professors were already clumped on the stone steps, drinking from red plastic cups. Sam was among them, dressed as an enormous white bird; when he waved wildly at Jon, one of his wings nearly caught fire, and his wife, Gilly, had to hastily put it out with her own wing. "You made it! I can't believe it," Sam beamed, oblivious to the fire, as Jon reached the golden light emanating from the lamp above their heads. A punk remix of a Halloween song was blasting from inside, and the clamor of too many voices made the music seem just like noise. 

"Are you a Goth?" Gilly asked politely, looking over his costume with surprising dignity for someone dressed like a giant bird.

"No, I'm a man of the Night's Watch," Jon protested, sensing a night of exasperation ahead of him. "I'm carrying a _sword_."

"We're ravens of the Citadel," Sam informed him earnestly, slinging an arm over Gilly's feathered shoulders. "Do you know—they trained ravens to carry messages and travel from Maester to Maester, and white ravens were sent during times of war—" Sam halted, then waved again at something behind Jon, his wing catching on one of Edd's candles once again. "Look, Sansa and Pypar are here!" he said delightedly. "Join us," he called over Jon's shoulder, as Gilly exasperatedly flapped at his smoking feathers.

Jon froze. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

"I have to talk to Mormont," he blurted, almost knocking Gilly over in his haste to get inside.

* * *

She had only seen a flash of Jon. The minute Sam had called out to them, he had slipped inside the party without even looking back. She didn't know why it bothered her; Jon never seemed to want to socialize with his friends when she was around.

"Oh, god," Pypar groaned next to her. "He went as a Goth, didn't he?"

"It looked like he was a man of the Night's Watch," Sansa replied doubtfully. "I mean. He had a sword."

Pypar shrugged.

"Sounds about right," he mused. "Either way, actually."

Pypar had gone as a deadringer for the popstar known as Joffrey—he was known for his mimicry and could, when prompted, belt out nuanced and exact impressions of any of Joffrey's embarrassing, teeny-bopper hits. He had added his own layer of humor to the costume: rumors had been circulating that Joffrey had violent tendencies, and Pypar had dressed in an orange jumpsuit. _He should be in jail_, he had informed Sansa casually the other morning, when she had stopped by the Wolfswood Cafe for a chai and a kiss. He'd just gotten the orange jumpsuit in the mail and was explaining its purpose to her with relish. 

Pypar did not know about Sansa's history and therefore could not know what this innocent comment meant to her; she did not know why she was unable to explain to him why his words had made her grow quiet, why his words had made her lean in and kiss him, impulsively, in a way she had never thought she might have done. Later, she had rambled about it at length in therapy, prompting her therapist, Dr. Luwin, to kindly remind her that there were a surprising number of good people in the world and to pass her the tissue box.

"Why, you look beautiful, Sansa," Sam said, as they reached the steps. "You really do look like Good Queen Alysanne. I've seen paintings, you know; the detail that you managed to get is truly production-level." Gilly's face lit up.

"Did you _sew_ that?" she breathed in awe, as Sam continued to lecture them on medieval embroidery, happily pontificating to a couple passing by that had nothing to do with the conversation whatsoever. 

"Yup, that's my woman," Pypar beamed, pulling Sansa in close and squeezing her. "Always wanted to date a six hundred-year-old queen. By the way, did Jon just, like, fuck off inside?"

There was an edge to his voice—or was she imagining it? Sam was pressing red plastic cups of orange-colored juice into their hands, and Gilly leaned forward to add clear liquor to the mixture. A feather from her costume dropped into Sansa's cup.

"He had to put in an appearance with Mormont," Sam explained, wincing, forgetting about medieval embroidery for the moment. "It all got a bit awkward, actually. Mormont got rather shouty about Jon showing up this year, and left angry post-its on his door, and at a faculty meeting this week, he told Jon that if he didn't show up this time, he'd make him take on my office hours. Can you _imagine,_ dragging me into the middle of that?"

"Absolutely unfair," Gilly agreed, shaking her head, catching Sansa's eye and grinning back. This was evidently a discussion they had had a few times.

"...Why didn't Jon want to come?" Sansa picked the feather out of her juice and took a sip. It tasted like chemicals, vodka, and artificial pumpkin—with an aftertaste of chapstick—but it would be rude to grimace.

"Oh, I can guess," Pypar snickered. Sam sighed loudly, looking disappointedly at Pypar. "What?" Pypar demanded. "I will bet you a beer—no, ten beers."

"That's really not very nice," Sam said anxiously. "It's not Jon's fault. Really, I don't blame him for not wanting to come. I wouldn't, either."

"No, but it's still hilarious," Pypar countered. He turned to Sansa and grinned. "Do you want to laugh your arse off?"

Sansa thought of the many times, in the last few weeks, that she had watched Jon '_just, like, fuck off' _every time she joined their group. The night that he had rescued her from hat-man had been the start of an awkward, tentative, and shy romance between her and Pypar, and thus she had been suddenly drawn into their group of friends, joining them frequently at whatever craft brewery Sam had most recently discovered. For all of the intensity of her previous connection with Jon, he was the only one of their group that had not been overwhelmingly friendly and welcoming to her, and never joined them when she did. He always had some excuse, and the few times they did interact were inexplicably cut short. 

In fact, it often seemed that he simply disliked her. At first, it had hurt her feelings. She'd agonized over it, laying awake at night and recounting every stilted and brief interaction, hunting for what had caused the disconnect between his kindness to her in Greyjoys and how he treated her now. But night after night had turned up nothing, and now, with every tiny victory elsewhere in her life—kissing Pypar, not obsessively checking her locks each night, not waking up with night terrors, not scanning the crowd for _him_ in fear—she was beginning to simply get mad. 

_What the _hell_ is his problem? _she had wondered to Arya over the phone one night, recently. 

_Resting bitch face? _Arya had offered up ironically. 

"I... suppose?"

Pypar took her by the elbow.

"Ten beers, Tarly," he called back over his shoulder, and Sansa heard Sam sigh again, with Gilly muttering something soothing. Then Pypar was leading her through the large, carved mahogany door, its stained-glass inset twinkling, and into the oppressive humidity of the History department's Halloween party. "Alright, we're going to play a game," he yelled into her ear over the crash and clash of punk rock Halloween music. "Spot Jon."

Sansa scanned the room. The decor of the history department was, as expected, traditional and staid, with plush rugs and cherry-wood-and-glass cabinets that rattled faintly on a quiet day with every step, and paneled glass windows that illuminated dusty patches of light. But tonight it was crammed with students and professors alike, and orange and white candles were clustered on every surface, giving the room a low, lurching, dangerous light. The music was blaring and the scent of sweat and alcohol was thick.

Many of the costumes were, predictably, historical references. Pypar's excellent Joffrey costume stood out, but of course, Pypar was not actually part of the university, and therefore felt no pressure to demonstrate his academic identity. A rather silly-looking man in a silver wig stalked past them as they searched for Jon, a toy dragon sewn onto his shoulder, and he was yelling into his mobile. "No, I want to go home after this, it's too fucking hot in here, and they've been playing Ironborn covers on repeat, and you _know_ how I feel about Ironborn," he complained, but he disappeared into the crowd before Sansa could hear the rest of what he was saying.

In the back corner was a swarm of long hair and bare arms; high-pitched laughter and high heels. Pypar was already looking there, and she watched his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. 

"There?" she guessed.

"Ding-ding, you win," Pypar said. "Follow the desperate girls and you'll always find Jon." He nodded to the clump of young women, all clearly students, who had appeared to have cornered Jon. At least, she assumed they had; she could not see him.

"Should we help him?" 

"Nah, let him sweat for a while," Pypar dismissed. "It's hilarious. Do you want an actual drink? This stuff tastes like body spray."

Sansa turned from the girls surrounding Jon. Even coming here had been a battle for her; once upon a time she had gone to ritzy, upper-crust parties on one man's arm on a weekly basis, had worn excellent dresses and jewels and had smiled and nodded and held champagne in her left hand to ensure her right would always be dry and cool to shake another's hand. She would not let this strange awkwardness with Jon spoil this victory for her. 

"Sure," she said. "If they have white wine—"

"—White wine?" Pypar teased, wrinkling his nose, but he was already pushing through the crowd toward the table laden with a punch bowl and bottles of alcohol. Sansa already wished for some air, but explaining why she already longed to go home would be impossible. Besides, she told herself, this was _good_ for her. 

She did not want to think about Jon, but she couldn't help but peer at the girls surrounding him. She was just curious. It was no surprise that his students would find him alluring—handsome, highly-renowned in his field, and utterly disinterested in younger women... She knew she would have been desperately in love; she would have spent every lecture gazing at him and daydreaming about having debates on the usefulness of secondary sources over red wine, watching him gesture with those lovely hands as he spoke... 

The crowd of girls broke; Jon was pushing his way through them, and as though he'd been looking for her, their gazes locked across the room in one electric moment, as he sidled between two people, slipping past them with the deft desperation of a true introvert. He was dressed all in black, black boots and a black leather tunic, showing a certain level of effort and dedication to his costume. He did not look annoyingly good in it; there was nothing special about the way the sword-belt slung at his hips looked. She had no fantasies about heroic knights, and even if she did, this would _not_ satisfy those fantasies. 

His lips parted as though he had been punched, and then a long-haired professor—she believed his name was Tollett—was pulling him away, to another group in the corner that was centralized around Dr. Mormont. 

"You found Jon." Pypar had returned and was holding a plastic cup of white wine for her. 

"He looked like he was suffocating," Sansa teased. "Thanks," she added, taking the cup from him. She was just drumming up something that would be worth shouting over the music when Grenn came up behind Pypar and clapped him on the shoulder. Grenn was dressed in nothing more than a hoodie with a skeleton on it that glowed faintly in the dim lighting, and the two men began making jokes that Sansa could not hear. With nothing to do, Sansa folded her arms and sipped her wine, and tried not to look at Jon—yet the room seemed awfully small, and it seemed she was glancing at him constantly by accident, their gazes grazing each other clumsily, repeatedly. Maybe, she wondered, he still thought her a stalker. After all, this was no different than the Wolfswood Cafe, where he had caught her looking at him so many times. 

* * *

"Oh, Snow, how's that lady of yours?" Dr. Marsh had interrupted suddenly, an obvious and painful bid to break Mormont, Edd, and Yoren's nauseatingly circular—and drunken—dissection of the current political climate. Mormont tended to reference earlier periods of history that only superficially matched the current situation; Edd tended to take the opposite view of Mormont out of habit; and Yoren tended to interject with cynical remarks that somehow angered both Mormont and Edd for different reasons. 

Jon looked away from Sansa. _Dammit. _It seemed that he could barely raise his eyes from the floor without accidentally looking at her. Instead, he looked at the ruddy-faced professor; when Marsh drank beer, his face got even redder. He was nearly fire-hydrant colored now, which meant that within a half hour from now, Jon would be shaking Marsh out of a tipsy slumber. "Haven't seen her in a while. She couldn't make it?" 

"We broke things off a few weeks ago," Jon admitted uncomfortably. Pypar was in his periphery; he angled his body so that he could see less of his friend. Marsh nodded, studying Jon, his bleary eyes not without sympathy. 

"You lived together, right? Can't've been easy." 

"She got the flat; I moved," Jon said shortly, and drained the rest of his beer. 

"Don't take it the wrong way, but I think some time as a single man will be good for you." 

"Single? Who's single?" Mormont interjected. He tended to be a surly, befuddled drunk. Yoren, who had been nursing the same beer all evening and would probably not finish half of it, snorted. 

"Snow is. Didn't you see the girls lining up over there?" 

Jon wanted very much to leave.

He turned away from Marsh and Mormont. Across the room, he saw Sansa standing by herself, drinking white wine awkwardly, as Pypar and Grenn began to draw a crowd. 

He crossed his arms over his chest. 

_Don't even think about it. _

"Yikes," Edd was saying. "He's not a fucking pedophile. They look younger and younger every year. It'd be a disaster." 

"Ah, but sometimes there's an appeal to doing something self-destructive. You get stale in your career, you can't find ways to move forward there, so you blow things up, bit by bit," Mormont was reasoning. "Seen it happen to men your age, boys." 

"You can't call us men _and_ boys in one breath," Edd said now, and they fell back into their earlier argument. 

Sansa was still alone. 

Jon thought of the way Pypar could no longer meet his eyes, thought of the new edge to their friendship that he would never have guessed could cut either of them. He would have thought that breaking things off with Val would bring relief, and in general, it had—but it had also brought a new tension. It was not his fault that the same night that Pypar had decided to kiss Sansa, Jon had ended his relationship, but how he reacted to this new edge to their friendship _was_ on him. 

It did not matter that she took his breath away; it did not matter that she was still standing alone. They barely knew each other, after all. 

"I'm gonna head out," he said quietly to Marsh. "Good luck with them." 

Jon pushed off from the wall. He would have to walk past Sansa; he would not be able to avoid her. _Grow up, _he told himself. _Stop making things about you. _He grabbed his empty cup to throw it out, and braced himself to walk past her.

_TBC..._


	4. Pumpkin Juice, Part II

Pypar and Grenn were laughing about Pypar's impression of Joffrey's hit song, and a small group was forming around them, begging Pypar to do more impressions of Joffrey and laughing. Sansa had laughed vaguely with them, but her breath caught in her throat when she realized _he_ was coming over to them. Jon had pushed away from the group of history professors and was making his way toward them with an eye to the door, his face impassive, movements tightly controlled. He had looked at her and lifted his chin, a grim movement to acknowledge her, lips pressed together and hands fisted. 

He'd have to pass by her. 

"Be right back," she muttered to Pypar, but he did not acknowledge her—he was busy crooning into an empty cup, pretending it was a microphone. In haste to avoid facing Jon, Sansa burst out into the night air, knowing full well that she was being ridiculous. She had, only a little earlier, been furious that he had so clearly avoided her, but now she was doing the very same thing, for no reason. It was not as though anything would have happened between them. In all likelihood, he would have simply brushed past her with a nod.

Perhaps it was _that_ that she was truly running from. The idea of him brushing past her with nothing but a nod... Another moment of grazed avoidance, of disconnect, of dashed hopes. Another moment in which to hope, painfully, for something and then feel guilty for it, with Pypar directly in her line of sight. Better to run from it; better to avoid it entirely. 

Sam and Gilly were still outside, lingering by the candles and the punch bowl on the top of the steps, and Sam was informing what appeared to be a group of undergrads about the ravens that the Citadel had trained. They looked bored to tears; one of them was openly studying their mobile, but Sam was—fortunately or not—oblivious. It seemed safer, out here. She could lock herself into listening to Sam, and hopefully Jon would simply slip past her. His disdain of her would be less evident if her back were to him; there would be less to hope for. 

The door banged shut behind her, and in her periphery she saw him. She'd not been fast enough. 

"Hey," Jon said, passing her. Sam looked up just in time. 

"Jon! And Sansa! You're finally in the same place!" he realized gleefully, the undergrads scurrying away from him the minute he turned his head. Sansa saw Gilly wince behind him. _Sorry, _she mouthed at Sansa, and Sansa stifled a flash of misgiving. Was this a _thing_ now? She had assumed that Jon's distance had been all in her head, or, at the very least, that no one else had noticed it. But if even Sam had noticed it...if Gilly was openly acknowledging it... 

"Except I'm leaving," Jon said. He glanced back at Sansa but it was only a passing look. "I did my time, and Mormont's drunk," he said shortly. He pushed up the sleeve of his tunic, to look at his black watch. "It's nine thirty." 

"Oh, that's early. Come on and have one more drink with us, both of you," Sam said. He was already pouring them more jungle juice in red plastic cups, and waved pleasantly at a passing undergrad, knocking over the punch bowl as he did. "Oh, bother." 

It was perhaps the only way he could have kept both Jon and Sansa there, and before she could contemplate her choices, she looked at Jon. He was looking at her already, and her breath caught in her throat. She had not expected to meet his eyes. The candles had edged Jon in gold, and her belly lurched. He always seemed so intent on avoiding her eyes that this moment of connection was blaring, shocking, enough to make it hard to breathe, enough to make heat creep up her neck. She hadn't been prepared for the warmth of his gaze. He bit his lip, then looked away, raking a hand through his hair. She could breathe again, but now the world felt cold and empty. 

"I'll get some towels," he said at last, resigned. 

He came back out a moment later, clutching bunches of paper towels, and he and Sansa crouched with Sam and Gilly, mopping up the punch that was pooling along the ground. The air was thick and sweet with artificial pumpkin and vodka. When they knelt down, her heavy skirt almost draped in the punch, and Jon hastily pushed it out of the way. He had not touched her, but he might as well have. "Thanks," she muttered, pushing her skirt the rest of the way out of harm's way. "No problem," he muttered in reply. They might have been safe once they'd finished cleaning up, but Gilly had disappeared and reappeared with pumpkin beer for both of them, in place of the punch.

"Oh, is that the pumpkin ale brew from the Reach?" Sam asked eagerly, as Jon and Sansa stuffed the sopping wet, orange-stained paper towels into a nearby trashcan. "I meant to try that; it's the only pumpkin ale I've not tried yet." Sam reached into the mass of feathers that was his costume, and retrieved his mobile. He had been tracking every beer he tried on some app, and he was delighted every time he got to check one off.

"It is indeed. Here you both go," she said, passing the cups to Jon and Sansa. They each accepted, because it suddenly felt oddly lonely out here; because Sam was unbearably sweet; because, at the very least, they were no longer inside. Sansa heard a strain of Grenn's raucous laughter, following Pypar's laugh, and she leaned against the stone wall, holding the cup close to her chest, willing her pounding heart to slow. 

"You _will_ love pumpkin ale, one of these days, Jon," Sam was insisting, pacing before them. "It will happen. You'll fall in love with it. It's warmth. It's autumnal. It's _special—"_

"It tastes like squash water," said Jon flatly, grimacing into his cup. He was standing next to Sansa, and their elbows brushed. Sam rounded on Sansa. 

"What do _you_ think, Good Queen Sansa?" he asked. "By the way, Jon, have you noticed Sansa's costume? She sewed it herself, and as a bit of an expert on medieval embroidery, I can tell you it really is a stupendous example. Historically accurate. Doesn't she look wonderful?" 

Jon glanced at her costume, dark eyes flicking over her dress, then looked back into his cup. 

"Yeah. I noticed it earlier. Looks good," he said vaguely, before unexpectedly finishing the rest of his beer, knocking it back with unusual gusto. Sansa saw Sam and Gilly glance at each other. _What was that about? _she wondered. There was a private, intimate look to it; they had discussed something and were wondering about it now, that much was clear. She turned from it, and back to Jon. He wiped his mouth discreetly, thumb grazing his lip. 

"Thanks. Yours is good, too. I remember reading about the clothing of the Night's Watch," Sansa offered. "It's really interesting how they used all-black clothing to create a sense of unity among their men." 

Jon looked up at her, surprised. 

"Yeah," he said slowly. "It is interesting how they did it. Most of them were criminals, and the black sort of worked to turn it into a badge of honor."

"Right. They weren't pretending they_ weren't_ former criminals, but now—"

"—They became part of this institution that acknowledged them, that made_ use_ of whatever they had done to break the law—" Jon had visibly brightened, gesturing with his empty cup. 

"—Yes! As rehabilitation goes, it was an early example of having some success," she added, trying to mask the excitement in her voice, trying not to notice that Jon was, ever so slightly, angled toward her. There was the faintest ghost of a flush on his cheeks; he was trying not to smile. He looked almost exhilarated. He looked brighter and more alive than he had all evening.

"Exactly. Everything else in Westerosi society was geared toward punishment—"

"—It still is—"

"—Right, and this is proof that rehabilitation is important, that it's worthwhile," he insisted. "The Night's Watch was functioning for _centuries_ on almost non-existent funding, where other institutions utterly failed even with funds; especially military ones. That's a sign that it was working. It wasn't perfect, but they really _did_ something there."

"Think of what they could've done with proper funding," Sansa began, and Jon drew in a breath to speak, angling more toward her, but they both paused when they realized that Sam was beaming at them. 

"You both are so _good,_" he swooned. "Aren't they both so pure, Gilly? I think Jon and Sansa will save the world." 

"Yes, Sam," Gilly said indulgently, patting him with a molting, pumpkin-vodka-stained wing. "They're both very good people." 

She shot a smile at Jon before she could stop herself, just as they heard the front door to the department open and shut, and Jon looked away hastily from her, clearing his throat. 

"I'm a hit," Pypar announced, doing a dead-on impression of Joffrey, complete with faux-gang-signs and a ridiculous pose. Behind him, Grenn choked on his beer. Pypar faltered when he saw Jon. "There you are, Snow. You're like the roadrunner lately."

"Don't worry, we've given him more beer, so he can't legally drive off on his motorbike just yet," Sam promised Pypar, but Jon had already stepped back. 

"I walked, actually," he said, tossing the empty red cup in the trash. "So I can go any time—like now." 

"Too bad. I was enjoying the image of you riding your bike with that sword," Pypar snarked. "Very on-brand, isn't it? Only thing missing would be the girls chasing after you like ducklings." 

Jon did not reply right away. He arched his brows at Pypar, almost daring him with a look. Pypar lifted his chin, and the two men stared at each other for a long, terse moment. A muscle leapt in Jon's jaw; Pypar was standing taller than Sansa had ever seen him. 

"I'm gonna head out," Jon said at last. "See you guys later." He brushed past her, and no one spoke as he hastened down the steps and then onto the quad. As he walked, a few giggling undergrads approached him on the grass, but were rebuffed with nothing more than a frosty look. 

"Well," Sam began in a high-pitched, unsteady voice. Grenn tossed his own cup in the rubbish, and was, to Sansa's surprise, scowling at Pypar. 

"Grow up, Pyp," he said bluntly. Pypar flushed; Sansa had never seen him blush. He looked at her at last. She wanted to be angry with him—he had behaved, objectively, like an ass for no reason—but there was something so vulnerable about the way he could not quite meet anyone's eyes. It could not be easy, being friends with Jon, standing just outside of his constant spotlight. Her heart ached for him, and she set aside the way her heart had pounded as she'd talked with Jon. 

"Forget it," she said, reaching for him and setting a hand on his arm. "I think everyone needs some food and water. That punch was strong." 

"And disgusting. Sorry, Gil," Pypar said, recovering from his moment of tension and shooting Gilly a grin. "It's not your fault that everything pumpkin-flavored is actually kind of gross." 

"Not true!" Sam interrupted. "Hold on, let me go get you some of that pumpkin ale—"

"—Sansa's right," Grenn said loudly. "Can we _please_ get food? I'm starving, and this is giving me flashbacks to university."

"You were only in university for two months, Grenn," Pypar reasoned, as they began walking down the steps together as a group. 

"I know! Thank god," Grenn shuddered. 

Sansa and Pypar linked arms. Grenn, Sam, and Gilly walked ahead, trailing black and white feathers, Grenn's skeleton hoodie glowing faintly in the gaslamps along the quad. Pypar was quiet. 

"Sorry," he said after a long time. 

"What was that?" she asked. She was all too familiar with embarrassing emotions that made you act idiotically, that made you unkind to the people you loved. She squeezed his arm, and bit back the feeling of crushing disappointment. Pypar sighed, pushing at his short hair. 

"Honestly, nothing. I think you're right. Some food and water's in order. That, and sometimes Snow's whole...thing...gets old. Everything's always about him." 

She had to tread carefully. They walked beneath one of the medieval arches, and turned onto the main drag of Winter Town. It was a clamor of jack-o-lanterns, drunk girls in sequins and devil horns, and guffawing boys, and Sansa felt unbearably old in comparison. She wanted, more than anything, to be in her pajamas in her flat, her makeup removed and a mug of tea in hand. 

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said slowly, thinking of how her therapist Dr. Luwin so deftly was able to gently, kindly challenge the convictions that she knew in her heart were ridiculous but held onto anyway. "You were not very nice to him, out of nowhere." 

"It's just the way he carries himself, sometimes," Pypar snapped, then he retreated. "Sorry," he said again. "I have never gone into a room and had an entire room of girls chase me down."

"I think most people haven't," Sansa said carefully. "And I don't think, if Jon didn't have that, you would automatically have that. He's not taking anything from you." 

Pypar looked like he wanted to snap at her, but he held his tongue, and they walked in silence together. Up ahead, Grenn and Sam were arguing about the best pizza in Winter Town, and Sam was becoming rather emotional and shouty about it, though they dissolved into laughter just as easily. "It's just hype. Group-think. Enough girls became obsessed with him, and the others followed. It could happen to anyone," she reassured him now. "And it doesn't seem like it's making him terribly happy." 

Pypar still didn't speak; he was working his jaw. He looked at her, though, and he was smiling, almost sadly. 

"You are," he began, "the kindest, most patient person I have ever known—and I name Samwell Tarly among my best friends, so that is saying something." 

Sansa flushed. "I was an ass. I need to get over myself," he added now. 

"We all need to get over ourselves," she reassured him. They had paused in front of a pizza parlor, and Sam was looking up its reviews on Yelp as Grenn loudly groaned. 

"We can just _eat it _and _see_ if we like it," he was complaining, throwing his hands in the air as he faced Sam. "We don't need to research every bite we take. We can just live life!"

"Jonnel G from Winter Town says the mushroom pizza is good," Sam recited, eliciting another groan from Grenn, who at last stormed through the front door with Gilly in tow. 

"I should text Jon," Pypar said suddenly. They paused outside the door. "He won't be far. Maybe he'll want to join." 

Her stomach clenched, but Sansa smiled at him, and shivered in the cold. 

"That's a good idea," she said gently. The world suddenly seemed to glimmer; she suddenly was not tired at all. Pypar was texting as they went into the warm, fluorescent pizza parlor. She found herself laughing a little harder at something Grenn had said than warranted, she found herself giddy and hopeful. Pypar ordered then joined them at the booth, pocketing his mobile. 

"Eh, Snow said he can't join," Pypar told the group. "I got you a soda," he told her, passing her a paper cup. Sansa took it and forced a smile. 

"Thanks," she said, and avoided his eyes. 


	5. Pumpkin Beer, Part I

**Pypar: so anyway if you wanna go to the thing i think sam would be really happy**

**Pypar: unless you want to do something just us tonight**

**Pypar: up to you**

**Pypar: i just want to see you :)**

Sansa looked up from her mobile to the florid and expectant bouquet on her desk. Her mobile buzzed again.

**Pypar: thoughts?**

She was lucky, she reminded herself, touching the tiny smiley-face balloon that had been stuck among the flowers. Every girl dreamed of getting flowers for no reason from her boyfriend; every girl dreamed of an attentive, gentle, and loving boyfriend—yet every time she glimpsed the flowers, her heart sank and her belly writhed with a discomfort that felt a little bit like guilt. Every time her mobile buzzed with a new, sweet message from Pypar, she pushed the little device aside with a flash of impatience that she disliked in herself.

Maybe it was everything that had happened to her; maybe she simply didn't know how to enjoy a safe and secure relationship. She didn't deserve Pypar, and he didn't deserve how she felt about him: like he was a cloying, sweet perfume that she wished to wash away, or like he was an itchy sweater that had kept her warm but now was driving her mad and that she longed to take off. For all of the nights alone, in her flat, lying awake and wondering if she would ever be able to be with anyone again—now she was on the other side of it, longing for an unbothered mobile, an uncharted weekend.

_It's just a phase. I'm just feeling awkward with all of this intimacy. I'm just expecting some fairytale romance, and maybe those don't exist. _

**Pypar: helloooo**

It was a Friday, and apparently the group would be meeting at a craft brewery that Sam had been angling to get them all to try. Apparently it would take more than an hour to get to the brewery, out in the countryside. They'd sit there around a cluttered table, with Sam expounding on each beer, Pypar's arm around her or his hand on her back, and Jon would come late and ignore her, and Grenn would be weirdly combative with her—it had been a new development since Halloween, whose source she could not pinpoint—and she would go to bed with a lump in her throat, thinking vaguely that this was not what she had wished for and wondering if everyone felt like this, all the time.

_Just stop it. You're being ridiculous, _she told herself. 

**Sansa: Sorry, I was working. I just saw the flowers! They are so beautiful! Thank you.**

**Sansa: And I'm happy to stay in or go out :) up to you!**

Ever since Halloween, Pypar had been even more solicitous, and desperate to show that any tension with Jon had been resolved. He had been suggesting even more heavily that Jon should come with them on any outings, and vocalizing his disappointment loudly when Jon inevitably begged off on their plans, or came late, or left early. He had been trying, and Sansa knew what it was like to struggle through a flaw, to work through something that you knew was unreasonable but was, nevertheless, a gut reaction that came from something so much bigger than the situation. Pypar's jealousy came from a lifetime of feeling second-best, of being the consolation prize, of watching his friends pair off while he mysteriously stayed single. It was not about Jon, not really; Sansa knew this and understood Pypar, and she could tell that Jon knew and understood it, too. She knew simply by the way that he had pulled away from their group of friends, not wishing to inflict his presence on Pypar; she knew it by the fact that Pypar was still, in spite of his jealousy, good friends with Jon.

She wished, unreasonably, that Jon didn't understand. She wished, desperately, that he could show some sign of cruelty, some lack of empathy, some insurmountable flaw not driven by his good nature. It would have simplified things so much. She wished, bitterly, that they had not had that moment of connection at the Halloween party.

**Pypar: yay :D**

**Pypar: we should go i think**

**Pypar: id rather have a cozy night in with you tho but sam is really bugging me**

**Sansa: Sounds good to me!**

**Pypar: ok meet me at the cafe at 5:30 nd we can drive together**

**Pypar: itll be great, ill make a playlist**

**Sansa: Can't wait!**

She hesitated, watching the three dots pop up, flicker, and then disappear. Something was hanging in the air, something uncomfortable. She turned her mobile off. She did not want to be tempted to ask if Jon was going. Even a simple 'who else is going?' might tip Pypar off, and after all, this was just a phase. Just her adjusting to being in a relationship. Just her getting used to the truth: all that she had been through had not been karma stockpiled and ready to be traded in for fairytale. This was just what life was; this was just what normal relationships were. No swooping romance, but, on the other hand, no sickening fear, either. She was lucky, really. 

"Pretty flowers." One of her students was waiting at the door to her little office, and Sansa sat up, flushing at how visible her melancholy must have been. The girl smiled. "Lucky lady," she added shyly. "I was just stopping by about the exam."

"Right, of course." She pushed aside the flowers to the side of the desk. She _was_ a lucky lady; she had no right to feel so disappointed about her boyfriend being attentive enough to send her flowers. What was her problem? "Come in."

* * *

"Please? Please please please please please? Jon, you never come to anything anymore. I miss my friend!" Sam was saying indignantly. Jon pinned his mobile precariously between his ear and shoulder as he stuffed his laptop and notes into his bag, the last of his students trickling out of the classroom. For a moment he was alone in the sunlit room, glorious with golden fall sunlight setting the hardwood floors aglow and painting the old walls gold. He had been looking forward to an evening by himself—yet another—fixing something in his new flat, which seemed to be a bottomless pit of need. Every time he had fixed one thing, another would break down. It was the best flat he had been able to get on such short notice, and he told himself it was only temporary.

"Is Pypar going?" he asked plainly. Of course, he wasn't being completely direct—it was not just Pypar he had been trying to avoid. He heard Sam sigh.

"Gilly, who is brilliant," Sam began—this was the way he began half of his sentences and had been doing so for ten years now— "thinks that what the three of you really need is a blowup."

Jon shrugged awkwardly, one arm and then the next, into his peacoat.

"Thanks, Gilly," he said loudly, rolling his eyes. "I disagree—respectfully," he added hastily, at Sam's sharp, horrified intake of breath.

"Gilly knows people better than you do, Jon, and forgive me but you're not exactly an objective voice here. You and Pyp have had arguments before. You'll get over another one—but not speaking to him isn't helping either of you."

"We _are_ speaking," Jon countered, leaving his classroom, "and for the record, our arguments in the past have always been over things like football. Never how he fundamentally feels about me as a person."

"It's not how he feels about you, it's the prospect that his girlfriend could and very likely _would_ feel something for you. Statistically speaking, you tend to have girls running after you, and Pypar does not," Sam said gently, and Jon halted in the hallway, heart in his throat. "You wouldn't like him either, if the situation were reversed."

"Sansa doesn't _feel_ anything for me. It's just awkward between us because of how we met," Jon argued, but through the window, he could see into the quad, and his breath caught. A flash of copper in the sunlight. Sansa was walking through the quad, clad in a plaid coat, hair being whipped by the wind, carrying books and a vase of cheesy flowers. Jon leaned against the glass, watching hungrily. 

"Well, I do agree that she has some things to work out, and that it is partly her problem," Sam admitted. "Gilly thinks that she chose—"

"—Do you and Gilly just talk about us all day, Sam?" Jon interrupted. He could not quite tear his eyes from her until she had disappeared through the stone archway.

"No, we talk about lots of things, like the news, and beer, and little Sam, and my lesson plans, and her workouts, and plenty of other things." Sam heaved a sigh. "Look, my point—and Gilly's point—is that one way or another, this is going to come to a head. You could show some trust in your friendship, and some respect for your friend, by not avoiding it."

_He could also not date the girl I liked_, Jon thought at once, but he crushed that thought. He had literally no right to fault Pypar for taking an interest and acting on that interest, particularly when Jon had been in a relationship—fractured though it had been—at the time. Even now, he would not have been able to fault Pypar for it. He had no business being in a relationship right now. But his mind snagged on something Sam had said: _she has some things to work out_. He did not want to tread down the path of what Sam had implied, for therein lay dragons, but it was so tempting... 

"Fine. I'll come," Jon said shortly. "But I'm not driving with the two of them."

"Yay!" Jon knew Sam was beaming, perhaps even doing one of his little dances. "Alright, I'll give you the address."

* * *

She had gone home and changed, and now Sansa made her way to the cafe. She had debated over her outfit, and in the end selected a sweater that Pypar always seemed to like. Pypar had closed up early and was waiting outside the cafe, hands shoved in his pockets, dancing around in the cold. He brightened when he saw her.

"You're beautiful," he blurted as she reached him, and automatically reached to take her hand. Sansa squeezed his hand as they walked to his car, an orange-colored bug that, cute as it was, was always in danger of breaking down.

"No, the flowers are beautiful," she corrected. They settled into their seats. "So," Sansa began briskly, as Pypar input the address, "what's special about this brewery?"

"Apparently the drive is nice," Pypar said with a shrug, pulling away from the cafe. "Sam said he and Gilly like to go here on Saturdays. Nothing like a long drive after several beers," he said with a roll of his eyes. "But he's, uh, making everyone go tonight. Full house. Even Edd is coming."

"Right." Sansa stared out the window as her stomach clenched.

Pypar impulsively switched on the radio—"what about the playlist?" she asked, and he replied sheepishly, "I forgot"—but even its tinny chaos could not distract from the fact that Pypar had been implying something. The silence stretched on as they pulled onto the highway. The riotous autumnal colors turned to a blur as they drove further north, toward a night of each of them being hyperaware of Jon's presence.

_What are we doing? _she wondered. 

"I guess we're both beat," Pypar said at last, an hour later, as they pulled onto a winding country road along a lake. The bulrushes were rippling, the dark water reflecting the flame and gold from the dying leaves above it. It was lovely enough to take her breath away.

"It was a long week," Sansa agreed. They glanced at each other and offered tenuous, timid smiles. Pypar seemed to brighten at her smile. They pulled onto a gravel drive, the rock crackling beneath the old tires, and an old house with a barn came into view, with a tent that was already spilling over with people. In the twilight, the twinkle lights strung around it made her heart ache in a good way, and her spirits lifted. "It's so beautiful," she said as they parked. "I can't blame them for loving this place." Pypar shrugged.

"Yeah, it's great," he said, and she saw now what had made his voice flat: a black motorbike had pulled into the lot a moment ahead of them. Jon was taking off his helmet, his hair wild and mussed from being under the helmet, and across the lot he saw them and offered a wave.

"Pyp. Sansa," he greeted, stowing his helmet. Pypar impulsively laced his hand in Sansa's, and Sansa saw Jon's eyes flick to the motion before hastily flicking away. The trio walked together toward the entrance of the barn, which was crowded with potted plants strung up with fairy lights and was near the entrance of the tent. Sam, Gilly, Edd, and Grenn were already seated around a hightop next to the tent, beneath the twinkle lights, with Gilly shivering next to one of the heat lamps. 

"How was the drive on your bike?" Pypar forced out.

"It was good," Jon said, an edge to his voice. A warning.

"You all made it!" Sam called, waving to them. Grenn shot Sansa a cold look before noticeably turning away from her. "Come and try almond beer!"

"That is disgusting, Sam," Jon reasoned, earning a laugh from everyone. They settled around the table with the others, with Sansa ending up between Jon and Pypar. Grenn was still scowling at her, but Pypar was busy teasing Sam. 

"What's next—yoga beer? Vegan beer?" he was asking. Sansa heard Jon laugh under his breath. 

"Isn't beer already vegan?" Gilly wondered, and Sansa looked to Jon. 

"So, um, how are your classes going?" she asked. Jon glanced at her. His elbows were on the table, so he was closer to her than he might have been, and when she settled on her stool, their legs brushed. She saw him lick his lips and look away. 

"They're good. Yours?" 

Grenn made a show of scoffing and rolling his eyes. 

"Good," she said, watching Jon look questioningly at Grenn. But Edd had arrived, occupying Grenn's attention and therefore his hostility. "I'm going to go order a beer. Do you want one?" 

Jon hesitated, biting his lip. He looked like he was on the precipice of something.

"You know what? I'll go with you," he said suddenly. 

They awkwardly slid off their stools, and Jon offered to get beers for the group before turning to walk inside with her. The barn inside was blaring with folksy, plodding alt-rock, filled with hipsters in plaid shirts and boxframes. They pushed their way to the bar, but it was so crowded that they were ignored. 

"Listen," Jon began, taking out his wallet, "I don't know if this is what's going on, but—" their shoulders brushed as they were jostled by people around them, "—you don't have to feel awkward for the whole accidental picture thing." 

Sansa's mouth went dry. She stared at the blackboard above the bar featuring the current rotation of beers and their alcohol content, all of them named, cloyingly, after song lyrics. 

"O-oh. I don't," she promised. The bartenders rushed past them, promising they would be right with them. "I mean, you know it was an accident. Not that I don't suddenly remember it and cringe," she added with a laugh. "But I know you don't care."

"Right." They stared, in silence, at the blackboard sign together. "Well, I just wanted to make sure. I mean, I didn't notice anything, but Sam said it seems like things are a bit weird."

"Oh. Really? Weird how?" 

Where was the fucking bartender? This was humiliating. So Sam had noticed the awkwardness between them. And if Sam, wonderfully sweet but also sometimes oblivious, had noticed it, then everyone else had. No wonder Grenn seemed to hate her. He probably thought she was in love with Jon. And of course, she reminded herself, she wasn't. She was just...in a weird phase. Adjusting to a normal, healthy, loving relationship. Jon cleared his throat. 

"Um. I don't really know. He didn't go into specifics. He just sort of mentioned there was something off. But I told him he was probably reading into things wrong," he dismissed. "I mean, Sam's always making up drama." 

"Yes, well, there's no weirdness here. As far as I know," she promised. "It's always awkward when someone new is introduced into a group." 

"Yeah. Definitely." Jon tapped his wallet against the wooden counter, chewing on his lip. His sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms looked strong, and Sansa looked back at the list of beers hastily. Why couldn't she blush when she looked at Pypar's arms? It was such a simple wish. It would have made this so much easier. And what if, she wondered, picking at her nails to avoid looking at Jon, she would feel precisely the same way if the situation had been switched? What if dating Jon would put her in exactly this same place, blushing every time she so much as looked at Pypar? What if her fickle heart just wanted to be dissatisfied? 

"So sorry for the wait," the bartender, sporting a rumpled chambray shirt and a handlebar mustache, said as he slid over to them. Jon gestured for Sansa to go first, not looking at her. 

"I'll have two 'moon waned to crescent's,'" she said. "Twelve ounces." 

"Two 'moon waned to crescent's'. And you, Mr. Curls?" the bartender asked teasingly. Jon looked irritated, and forced a half-smile. 

"Astuary king, twelve ounce," he said shortly. The bartender snapped his fingers and hastened back to the kegs, leaving them in tense silence once more. "So we're good?" Jon asked suddenly. 

Sansa forced herself to look at him. In the dim glow of the bar, his eyes looked darker. Her arms prickled, and she suddenly was aware of everything: the texture of her sweater, the way her boots were digging into her ankles; the earthy scent lingering beneath the yeasty smell of beer, a remnant of the barn; Jon's eyelashes. _Just a phase,_ she reminded herself. 

"Of course. We were already good," she reassured him. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and they stood there in silence once again. "I like this song," she said suddenly, desperate to cut the tension. Jon listened for a moment. 

"I barely can hear it. Yeah, I like it too," he agreed, seeming to relax slightly. He hesitated, but then pushed onward. "I actually went to see them live a couple of years ago. It was a really small show, in the basement of this bar, but it was really good. They went acoustic-only."

"You _would_ like that," she teased, and her heart leapt when she saw him smile briefly, a genuine smile. "That does sound nice. I tend to avoid big concerts; I don't like when they're overwhelming."

"Me too," Jon agreed. He turned toward her slightly, leaning on the counter. "You can't even hear the music. Actually, another group I like is coming to the same venue—" he was cut off when the bartender arrived, hands wrapped around their beers. 

They each paid for their beers, but Grenn and Edd had come in, and for some reason, neither Jon nor Sansa tried to continue the conversation. "Hey, guys," Jon simply said. Sansa followed him back out to where everyone else was sitting, avoiding Grenn's eyes. When she saw Pypar looking at them, she offered a smile that it took him a beat to return. Gilly and Sam were watching them closely as they slid onto their stools again, but Jon either was expert at ignoring them or oblivious to their stares. Sansa offered them a smile, too. _Just a phase. _She placed a gentle hand on Pypar's back, and looked at her boyfriend fully and smiled at him with everything she had. Pypar seemed taken aback, but squeezed her hand, looking a little dazed. 

His eyes only briefly followed Jon before he tore them away from him, and returned Sansa's smile. 

"You got us the same thing?" he asked, looking at the beer she'd gotten. 

"Yes, and honestly I just picked the first thing I saw," she admitted. Sam clapped a hand to his temple. 

"No, you can't do that! You've got to sample a few of them, they've got some really weird ones—" Pypar choked on the beer and beat his chest.

"Holy fuck, that's weird," he rasped. Sansa couldn't help but laugh, and when she did, she leaned back slightly, and brushed against Jon accidentally. 

"Sorry," they both muttered, and Pypar did not miss it. 

His mood seemed to drop all evening, no matter what she did. When Edd and Grenn came back with their beers, the conversation turned to Christmas, and what everyone was planning on doing, and that was when it happened. 

"I guess we're spending it together?" Pypar asked, after Sam had detailed, ad nauseam, how he and Gilly planned to decorate the house for Christmas. Sansa smiled, but felt uncomfortable. 

"I mean, I'll be visiting my family," she pointed out, "but we should do something Christmas-y. I love the holidays." 

"I could visit _with_ you," he replied, joking and yet clearly not joking. Sansa forced a smile. 

"Isn't it a little early?" she said, trying not to cringe. 

"At that point, we'll have been together for more than two months," Pypar shot back. Behind her, she heard a scoff, and they each looked back at Jon. "What?" he asked bluntly. 

"Drop it, Pyp," Jon muttered. 

"Fuck off," Pypar replied, and even though he was smiling, it didn't reach his eyes, and Sansa saw Jon sit up slightly. "Last I checked, you weren't in this relationship. At least, I hope not. As pretty as your hair is, I only signed up to date Sansa." 

"When you bring up your relationship in general conversation, you kind of force your relationship on me whether I want you to or not," Jon countered. Sansa's palms began to sweat. She didn't want this. She hated causing scenes. She didn't want _any_ of this. _I just kind of put up with things, _she remembered telling Jon a month ago. Here she was, in therapy and in a new life, and she was still keeping quiet as her relationship turned everything around her to acid. Pypar rolled his eyes. 

"There's such a thing as turning around and talking to someone else."

"And there's such a thing as not cornering your girlfriend into stuff by bringing up private topics in public—"

"—Oh my _god,_" Sansa suddenly blurted out. 

The table fell silent and her face grew hot. "Can both of you shut up? Pypar, I don't want to spend Christmas with you." The silence was ringing, and everyone was staring at her. She looked down at the table, then slid off her stool. "It's too early. And Jon, please don't press Pypar's buttons. I appreciate the help, but I don't need it." 

Taking in a shuddering breath, she turned away from the table. "I'm going to the bathroom." 

On her way, Grenn discreetly held up his palm and, to her shock, high-fived her. "Finally," was all he muttered, and she did not linger long enough to hear any further. 

She hated scenes. She hated conflict. But, more than that, she hated _this, _she thought as she pushed through all the plaid in the barn toward the bathroom. Her heart was still racing. She ought to have been kinder, she ought to have just put up with it—or should she? She didn't know, she didn't know. But she did know, as she reached the bathroom and locked herself in one of the stalls, that she was tired of putting up with things, and she wasn't even sure she _could_ anymore. 

"Sansa?" Gilly's voice came. Sansa straightened and cleared her throat, and, to make good on her lie, unbuttoned her jeans. 

"Hey, I'm in here," she called. She heard the clack of Gilly's boots on the tiles. 

"Hey. So, um, awkward thing, but Pypar kind of left," she explained. Sansa stood there with her jeans unbuttoned. "Just thought you ought to know," she added. "And, um, Jon offered to give you a ride. He feels...bad," Gilly continued. "...I think he does, anyway." 

"Thanks." 

"But obviously, if you don't want to, I'm sure Edd could give you a ride. Anyway. I'll see you out there." 

Gilly's boots clacked and then faded, leaving Sansa alone in the bathroom. 


	6. Pumpkin Beer Part II

She almost hadn't wanted to leave the safety of the bathroom. Sansa leaned against the wall of the stall for perhaps too long, staring at the black-grouted tiles and listening to the shifting conversations of other women coming in pairs and trios into the bathroom to fix their hair.

Perhaps the greatest foolishness of it was that she was embarrassed, so embarrassed that her cheeks still were hot to the touch and her hands shook lightly when she held them out before her. It did not matter that Pypar had acted ridiculously—his friends would side with him. It did not matter that she had achieved some personal victory tonight—they would find her tiresome. They would be embarrassed and reassure her that it was fine, but they'd be just a little distant next time, and the growing warmth between her and the group would fade, and she would wonder what she had gained from her outburst. She knew it had been right to stand up for herself, but why did it cost so much to do it? Why didn't she feel empowered and strong? Now that she was hidden away in the bathroom it was so easy to dream up softer, gentler, less humiliating ways she might have handled it.

Her mobile buzzed—Arya had texted. A string of texts from earlier in the evening had piled up:

_ **Arya: literally just kicked gendrys ass in donkey kong** _

_ **Arya: i thnk he might cry no joke lmao he had some stupid record that i CRUSHED** _

_ **Arya: we cant all be heroes** _

And now:

_ **Arya: sans?** _

Sansa's fingers hovered over the screen, and she bit her lip. She could no more explain to her ass-kicking sister what had happened with Pypar than she could have explained any of the things that had happened in the past.

_ **Sansa: What's donkey kong?** _

_ **Arya: OMG** _

_ **Arya: cant tell if your** **e being funny or not** _

_ **Arya: is this like that time you trolled me pretending not to know what sales tax is or is it more like that time you left an 80% tip because you cant math** _

Sansa put her mobile away, biting her knuckle to stifle her laughter, then sobered.

Why was it so easy to unravel in front of her therapist, yet impossible to give even the most spare details of her life to her sister?

Arya would never be in this position, but Sansa was not Arya. She was just Sansa—the thing was, she didn't know exactly what that meant. And suddenly it was time to decide what it meant, whether she was certain or not. At that humbling thought, Sansa left the stall. She had been hiding for long enough; it was clear more than ever that she was not going to think her way to the person she wanted to be.

When she went back onto the terrace, palms damp and legs turned to jelly, the group sans Pypar was still sitting under the twinkle lights. Jon was drinking water, but judging by Sam's flushed cheeks and Grenn's sloppy gesturing as he talked, the rest were on their second round. She offered a wave, and to her surprise, the group waved back as though nothing had happened.

"We thought you fell in the toilet," Grenn blurted out, and Jon choked on his water and Gilly rolled her eyes.

"Grenn, you're not supposed to comment on how long people were in the bathroom," Sam sniffed, then turned to Sansa. "We're sorry about Pypar, Sansa. He's not usually so..." Sam hesitated.

"...Asinine," Edd finished for him dourly.

Sansa remained standing.

"Um, it's okay," she began. Everyone was looking at her. "Look, if it's too weird for me to be here—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jon dismissed. "Pypar made a fool of himself. You didn't."

"Yes, I second that, Sansa," Sam said earnestly, as she slid back onto her stool, fully aware that her face was still flushed. "And Pypar just _leaving_ like that is awful behavior; he's never behaved so immaturely. I hope you don't mind, but we didn't work too hard to stop him."

"It would have been a very long ride home for you both," Gilly put in.

"Do you know, I bet Pypar made it two miles and realized how horribly he behaved," Sam theorized, holding a chip up with a socratic air. "He's not malicious, really, He's never had such a lovely girlfriend, though—"

"—He's never had a _girlfriend _at all," Edd corrected. The rest of the group dissolved into discussing their first relationships, leaving Jon and Sansa in the quiet. She shivered as Jon cleared his throat.

"Er. I can drive you. If you don't mind wearing a helmet." He was spinning his water glass on the table, not looking at her.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it." She tucked her hair behind her ear, all the more conscious of how their elbows brushed as she settled onto the stool. 

"And. Um. I'm sorry about earlier," he added suddenly. "I lose my head sometimes when I see someone getting bullied."

A lump formed in her throat. She could feel him glance at her, and she did not miss how Gilly's gaze strayed to her. She felt like her head was a fishbowl, the contents of her thoughts visible to everyone.

"It's alright. I'm just embarrassed that I caused a scene."

When she looked back at him, he was smiling slightly as he stared down at the tabletop.

"Everyone likes you," he said suddenly, though his voice was low. "Whether you're Pyp's girlfriend or not. We all like you." His neck was flushed now. "So—so just—" he looked around haplessly, "—don't worry about that. I mean, I don't know if you were. I just thought—" He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Sod it. I don't know what I'm talking about."

A laugh bubbled up that she hadn't been expecting.

"You like me? Even if I take accidental pictures?" Dammit. She hadn't meant for it to come out like that.

"Incredibly—yeah," Jon admitted with a laugh, and for a moment they were laughing together. Everyone was laughing around them, and the trees were rustling above them, and the soft guitar was fading into the night, and here they were, seemingly alone in the middle of all of it. And she was fifteen years old suddenly, head spinning and throat tight with _he likes me._ She had forgotten what that felt like: that singular joy of knowing you were accepted in the crushing but simple terms of adolescence, the kind of uncomplicated but acute passion of teenagers, when everything was dramatic but nothing was baggage, that eclipse of knowing passion—perhaps even having sensed heartache—but not yet knowing disappointment. _He likes me. _

It did not matter that he had said, _we __like you; _he had been talking about the group, but it felt like she had been fifteen again, passing notes under desks in class. It was as thrilling and heart-achingly nostalgic as the scent of freshly mown grass and the crunch of pinecones beneath your shoes on the way to school and the first bottle of perfume she had ever bought and purple nail polish and taking song lyrics entirely too seriously. For all of the drama of her adolescence, Sansa had loved being a teenager. She had loved the intensity of every emotion, had loved the fresh page of each new school year, had loved falling into every crush with all of the sincerity and woe of the heroine of a gothic novel, and in this moment she was glimpsing that old Sansa, that girl she had forgotten about, who fell in love at the drop of a hat and daydreamed, fervently, about what her life might be like some day.

She did not need a coat or heat lamps; sitting here outside at this table with Jon and his friends was the warmest she had ever been. 

"This time of year always feels a bit magic to me," she confessed suddenly, propelled by the feeling of safety and nostalgia. "When I was little, I just sort of assumed that there was magic, and fairies, and elves, and all that. I always forget how it felt to think that way, until late autumn comes around and I get to feel it again." She risked a look at Jon, wondering if she had opened up too much of her heart. 

"There's one road nearby here that always makes me feel like that," Jon replied after a moment. "We can take it on the way back." 

They both looked away, down at the table. 

"Alright," Sansa agreed. She had to bite her lip to stop from smiling. 

An hour passed. Sam and Edd teased Grenn about his online dating profile, and insisted, to Grenn's red-faced embarrassment, that Jon and Sansa help them edit it for him—"Well, you eventually spelled 'you're' right," Jon conceded at one point, with the exasperated encouragement of a very tired professor—and Gilly and Sansa discussed clothing, earning looks of bemusement and loud guffaws from everyone except Sam, who wanted to sincerely dissect the concept of sustainability in fashion (he had listened to several podcasts on the subject). And then Gilly was yawning and mentioning the babysitter, and Grenn and Edd were making plans to go off to some bar with pinball machines, and it was time. 

"Right. You're alright with riding on the back, right?" Jon asked awkwardly, as they bid the others goodbye and crunched along the gravel parking lot, in the crisp dark night, towards Jon's bike. 

"Is it safe?" 

They paused before Jon's bike. He shrugged. 

"This late, there won't be too many other cars on the road, and it's dry. It's safe," he replied, handing her the helmet. "Are you, um, warm enough?" He was eyeing her plaid coat and scarf as she strapped the helmet on. 

"Yes, I think so." 

There wasn't anything to do but do it. Jon seemed to hesitate, before getting on the bike with swift motions, not meeting her eyes. 

"Just hold on around my waist," he said gruffly, as Sansa awkwardly climbed on behind him with ginger, stilted movements. She held on to his jacket at the waist, her legs brushing his, her neck warm. And then they were off, tearing out of the parking lot and onto the darkened road. For a while, they went along the road that she and Pypar had come in on, but Jon took a detour and then they were in the thick of the woods, with only sparse lights along the road, going slowly around bends. Her anxiety faded, to be replaced by a deeper contentment, an almost meditative state, as she held onto Jon and watched the lovely, haunting woods speed by. They were driving alongside a creek, and the air had that metallic scent of rock and freshwater that took her even further back in time, to all of the little excursions that the Starks had taken into the woods. She had hated it, mostly—Arya and Bran and Rickon would get into 'battles' with sticks and invariably she would somehow get whacked, and spend the rest of the trip nursing a bruise and fending off gnats—but every now and then her heart had prickled with the sense of magic, and it did now. The scent of a campfire was thick in the air, now, and she could distantly hear a drum and the rattle of bells. 

She didn't dare break the spell and ask him what it was. They slowed further, and Jon nodded toward the left side of the road. He did not stop, but as they passed, she saw it: somewhere further in the woods there were dots of light dancing and flitting through the barren trees, and the strains of a feral music that could only have been elves. All the hairs raised along her skin and she drank it in as they pulled away from it, leaving behind mischievous laughter and burning wood and golden faces. 

When the woods broke and the road opened up again, it felt like they had come back into the world. The moon was bright, and the road was empty. 

"What was that?" she called, as they passed the pond that she and Pypar had seen on their way in. 

"Just some kids, I think," Jon called back. "There's an old stone ruin there and they have parties." 

They didn't speak again until they got back to Winter Town. Jon took backroads all the way back to Winter Town, avoiding the highway, and Sansa was glad that it took longer. She drank in every fleeting second, clinging to the way her spine had tingled with old magic at the drums and fire, and the way it felt to hold onto Jon's jacket and pass by something magic with him, and share something that perhaps might not have mattered to everyone. It was such a rare gift to not feel the time drag; to be lucky and to know it in the same moment. 

Winter Town was quiet now, as it was late. They rode through the main street, and even passed by the cafe, and after directing him, they reached her apartment. 

At the curb outside of her building, they paused. Sansa took off the helmet, only realizing now how chapped with cold her hands were. 

"That was beautiful," she said, as he stowed the helmet. "It did feel like magic. Thank you for showing me." 

Jon shifted on the bike. "And thanks for the ride home." 

He took off his helmet, still not looking at her. 

"I'm glad you stayed out with us," was all he said. He rubbed at a spot on the helmet as Sansa shivered on the sidewalk. "Pyp will come around. He acted like an idiot tonight, but he's not... well, he's not normally like that. He's generous, and kind, normally." 

"I know he is," she promised. "But I don't think we have a healthy relationship." 

"Right." Jon tapped the helmet. He hesitated. "I had that with Val. You think it ought to work, because you're both good people, but it's still a mess. I don't really know how it happens." 

"Are you glad you broke up with her?" 

She didn't know if it was prying; she had not yet heard Jon reference the breakup, and none of his friends did beyond tangential references to it that were hastily stifled at the death glare he shot them. But it seemed like an invitation; it seemed like a confession. 

"Yeah, I am." He looked at her at last. "Anyway. If you do want to break up with him, he'll get over it. You won't lose...the rest of us...as friends." 

She could not help herself. Maybe it was a spell cast over her by the magic in the woods; maybe it was her own wild impulse to feel that reeling, senseless joy of being a teenager again. But she said it:

"Because you like me." 

Jon looked away, but he was smiling. 

"Yeah." He put his helmet on again, and his voice was muffled by the helmet. "We do."

She turned around and walked with all the dignity she could muster into her apartment building, and she did not hear him speed off until she had shut the door behind her and stood in the yellow light of the hall. 

With numb fingers, she took out her mobile. 

_ **Sansa: I just rode on a motorcycle for the first time. ** _

Arya responded almost immediately.

_ **Arya: WHAT** _

_**Arya: omg its like youre alive again**_


	7. Mocha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this last night, then angsted about it, then firmly decided it was the right chapter to write. It's a transition chapter in a lot of ways and is a turning point. 
> 
> I'm technically on a break from fanfic while I draft my original manuscript, but I needed a break from that stupid thing so here we are. Thanks to everyone for sticking with me on this adventure... I had meant to cap this below ten chapters but these shorter chapters, while easier to write, make it hard for me to estimate pacing as well as I normally can, so who knows how much longer this will be?

Jon rang the bell, and almost at once, saw the hall light flicker on through the little window in the door. Pypar answered; Jon had not been sure whether he would. The old Pypar would have answered immediately—but the old Pypar would never have left Sansa at the brewery, either. 

He looked pale. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up, and he self-consciously pushed it down as he shut the door behind him. For a long moment, neither man spoke. 

"Look," Jon began, but Pypar held up his hand. 

"No, don't," he said. "This one's on me. I've been—I've been an arse." 

There was no need to rub it in. He had been an arse, too. He wanted to tell Pypar that he missed his friend—his funniest friend, his most lighthearted friend—and that he missed his favorite place to work. But Pyp had to know those things; there was no need to say them. 

"Did you call Sansa?" was what he asked instead. 

Pyp shoved his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and paced on the front stoop, kicking at the moss coming up through the brickwork with the toe of his trainer. 

"Nah," he admitted at last. "Not yet. I know I've got to, so don't bother telling me."

"I know." Now it was his turn to own up to something; giving Sansa a ride home had been well-meant, and he would have done it, instantly and without thinking, for anyone. But on the other hand, to have her arms around him, to hear her breathe with delight, to feel her cling to him... that had meant more to him. He could not call Pyp on his bullshit without calling himself on his own. "I gave her a ride home. She needed one, and obviously I would have done it for anyone, but... you should know." 

And then Pyp looked up, and Jon saw for a minute how clearly his friend had always somewhat loathed him, yet loved him, too. Pyp pressed his lips together; Jon watched his gaze harden, and he simply nodded. 

"A_ ride_ home?" he snarked. He'd meant to be funny, Jon saw—he was trying, and failing, to weave some normalcy into this strange and alien moment. "Sorry. I was—"

"—I know. Wouldn't have expected less." He toyed with his helmet as Pyp started pacing again. "It's weird. To not be friends." 

"We are friends," Pyp said at once, turning back to Jon quickly. "We'll always be friends. You're just—you're not the easiest bloke to be friends with, you know. Not for someone like me."

Pyp hesitated, and then the avalanche came. "I've had to work hard for everything I've ever got, and I know you've had to work, too, but it's not the same, is it? Your hard work pays off every time, and mine—well, sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. I never have any luck, though; not until Sansa. Sometimes it feels like all you have is luck. You've dated Ygritte, and Val, and girls are falling all over themselves to get to you—you literally have to avoid them—and then it turns out my girlfriend is obviously in love with you. You've had career successes, one after the other, ever since we all graduated. And me? I've barely managed to keep that stupid cafe afloat. I'm relieved when I break even, but most of the time I don't. And when I act like an arse, everyone turns on me—when you act like an arse, everyone just sort of... laughs and puts up with it." 

"You don't think everyone's been putting up with you?" Jon didn't want to be angry—there were some uncomfortable truths in Pypar's words—but he was, because there were some ridiculous misconceptions in there, too. "You don't think you've been given any free passes? You don't think we've all been awkwardly laughing and trying to shrug off your bullshit? And Sansa's not in love with me—"

"—Yes, she is," Pypar said calmly. "And it's inevitable that you two will pair off and be perfect together, and maybe I'll struggle along and meet some divorcee—"

"—Stop it. If we do pair off, it will only have been because you acted like such an arse and treated her like rubbish," Jon snapped. "Sansa likes you, and she's been more patient with you than I would be. And we might be friends, but I'm only friends with good people. If you treat her like that again..." 

"You'll rush in and punch me in the face and save her?" Pypar scoffed. 

"Yeah, actually," Jon shot back. His anger was rising. "And not because I'm in love with her. I want my friend back, Pyp."

He put his helmet back on. It was time to go, before he said something else he might regret. Already he had said too much. But the words were tumbling out anyway; he had been quiet for so long on this. "And my hard work doesn't always pay off. I've had plenty of disappointments, plenty of failures, plenty of rejection. I just don't talk about them, and I try not to take them out on other people, especially people who are kind to me."

He turned from his friend and walked back to his bike, his blood pounding in his ears. In his sideview mirror, he saw Pyp standing there on his front step, silhouetted by his light, a shadow against gold in the night. 

* * *

_If someone is mistreating you, you can tell them._

Dr. Luwin's words were her talisman, and she had been rolling them back and forth in her mind like a coin in her hand. _You don't have to swallow your anger. You don't have to hide behind a mask. _

She didn't have to just put up with anything anymore. Hadn't she been learning that? Did she want to be the girl in the cafe that Jon had needed to save, or did she want to be the girl in the cafe who could save herself? As fun as that moment had been—having Jon swoop in like a darkly-garbed knight; walking through the crisp air with him—it had been humiliating, and a moment of awakening, too. 

Pypar had agreed to meet her in neutral territory: the little fountain in the middle of the main street, which often served as a meeting point for shoppers and tourists. It was busy today with holiday shoppers, and the statues that lined the little square were decorated with tinsel wreaths, though Christmas was still far away. She had another hour before her last lecture of the day, and it had seemed like the perfect natural deadline to their confrontation: a natural break, to halt the drama from billowing out of control. The busyness of the little square might keep it contained, too. The old Sansa might not have said anything, or, at most, might have uncomfortably tried to break it off and then caved when she saw Pypar felt badly about his actions. But she could not stay with him. Even without Jon in the picture, she knew she could not stay with him, not after what he had done. But Jon was an added variable: he was out of her reach, and not an option, but as long as she felt as glowingly as she had about getting to ride through the forest with him, she could not stay with Pypar. It would be dishonest, dishonorable, and unkind to do so. It would be the wrong thing to do. 

Still. Confrontations were not exactly her strong suit. In fact, she was not sure she had ever really had a true confrontation at all. Her palms were clammy, and she had even frantically emailed Dr. Luwin, asking for reassurance. She had speed-read his reply; she was still ashamed that she had emailed him in the first place. Now she paced before one of the benches, turning over her mobile in her hands. Pypar's texts had been terse; he had agreed to meet and had not said anything else. 

_If someone is mistreating you, you can tell them. _

Across the road, she saw him. Pypar was hastening across the street, hands shoved in the pockets of his puffer coat, looking drawn and weary, and her heart could not help but ache for him. Perhaps this was wrong; perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps this was too hard. _You've ridden a motorbike,_ she reminded herself, a_nd made friends, and gone to a party, and done all sorts of things you thought you'd never do again. You can do this. _

She awkwardly waved at him as he reached the square, then realized that was an odd thing to do. 

"Er—do you want to sit?" she offered, gesturing to the bench. Pypar shrugged. He wouldn't meet her eyes. 

"I don't think this'll take long," he said dryly, a sardonic smile curving his lips. 

Sansa looked away. There were couples walking hand-in-hand; a child whinging to be picked up; pigeons dotting the slate. She drew in a breath. 

"Listen, what you did—"

"—It was shit, yeah." 

Sansa looked at Pypar in shock. He still was looking down, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looked incredibly uncomfortable. "I—Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt." 

She almost said,_ forget it. It's fine_. But he was clearly waiting, clearly ready to hear whatever she had to say—and he was not going to deny it. She had wanted to avoid a scene, to avoid ugly emotions, but now her eyes were burning for reasons entirely different than what she had been expecting. She felt ashamed now that she had thought so little of him, that she really thought he might cause a scene. For however poorly he had behaved, he had also been gallant, and funny, and empathic, too. 

"I hate how you treated Jon, and me," she admitted. "I hate how you just left me, like that, and didn't call to apologize. I've been—I've been treated badly before, Pypar. Really badly. I promised myself I'd never let myself be treated badly again." 

Pypar looked up at last, his eyes wide. 

"What?" 

"I don't want to talk too much about it," she continued, but her voice was growing stronger, "but I won't have that happen again. I'd rather be alone than mistreated. I'm not saying you're like he was, at all—I know you're a good man, and I wanted this to work—but you crossed a line. Maybe if I didn't have the past that I did, it wouldn't matter—"

"—No, it's okay," Pypar said. He was holding out his hand, waving her off. "I did cross a line, several times. I knew the minute I left that this was where things were going. I'd be a little freaked out if you were okay with it, to be honest."

"Well," she blustered. "Then—then I suppose you understand why this has to end." 

"Yeah, I do." He was fidgeting again, chewing on his lip. "You're lovely, inside and out. I couldn't handle it." He let out a sad little laugh and shook his head. "I feel like I was waiting for someone like you, and then when I did get you, I wasn't actually ready for you." 

Sansa did not know why she thought, instantly, of Jon. She pushed the thought aside. "Well! I'm feeling incredibly humiliated and sad, so I'm just gonna go," he said with a laugh. "I think this calls for beer and video games." 

"And I have class, so," she added awkwardly, and then they were looking at each other again. His eyes were wet but he was laughing. _I wish I loved him, _she thought sadly. _He's changing, just like I am. He'd be worthy of it, soon._

"Right. Yeah. Well," he began, swinging his arms, his voice loud. "Obviously, this doesn't change our friendship. If you want, you're still my friend, and you're still Sam and Gilly's friend, and Grenn and Edd's, and—and everyone else's. Obviously." 

"Thanks. That means the world." 

It was time to leave; there was nothing left to say. Neither knew what to do now, and they each moved as though to embrace, then each decided against it. In the end, they simply waved to each other, and began walking in opposite directions. 

In the growing twilight, among the black trees and Christmas lights and harsh winds, Sansa felt a lump rising in her throat. He had been so kind, so understanding. Her hands were still shaking, and it was only now that she was walking away from it, now that she had seen him be so kind, that she realized she had been afraid he might _do_ something. It had not just been a fear of confrontation. It had nothing to do with Pypar; she had always known he was good. No, she had believed it because, deep down, a fear had settled within her. And even in spite of that buried fear, she had made the change—and Pypar had been so good, so honorable... Tears pricked her eyes. Every now and then she felt powerfully connected to the world around her, and this was one such moment: looking around at the shoppers and tourists and commuters and students, strangers that so often seemed like background noise, she sensed their hopes and fears, weaknesses and strengths, as keenly as she sensed her own. We were all such jumbles of past pains and raw longing; and for every demon out in the world, there were a thousand more gentle broken souls, who all desperately wanted to do the right thing and could not always quite manage it. 

Back on campus, she wasn't ready to face running into anyone just yet and putting on her Dr. Stark face. She wanted a little more time with this feeling. She went past the Classics department, along the brick walkway, to a little courtyard formed by a trio of old stone buildings. It was one of the better-kept secret places on campus; she had found it earlier in the term when she had been looking for another building and had got lost. A little bench sat under a birch tree, looking at an espalier grown against the opposite wall, barren in the winter air. The bench was hard, and it was so cold she could see her breath, but it was peaceful here, too, and she could hear strains of violin coming from one of the cracked windows. The music department. Some poor soul attempting what was likely Bartok. It was creaky and stilted, but still lovely. She huddled against the cold, and—

"Sansa?" 

Jon was passing the courtyard, bundled against the cold and still wearing his glasses. For a moment she was thrown back to that first day in the Wolfswood cafe, and they regarded each other. The sky was flushing rose and lilac behind him, the sunset's last shouts._ I feel like I was waiting for someone like you,_ Pypar had said. And _oh_, her heart said. She had been waiting for Jon all her life—but she was not sure she was ready for him. She forced a smile at Jon but she knew it was obvious she had been in tears. "I thought it was you," he explained. "I was just leaving class and thought I saw your hair."

"Hi." She gave a little wave. Jon hesitated, then approached, and she was eager to fill the awkward silence, to fill it with noise to distract from the revelation she had just had. He was as precious to her, already, as the stilted strings of attempted Bartok; a promise of what might be beautiful, if only she could wait, and work, and stay hopeful. "You were right. About Pypar. I ended it today; just now, actually. He was really kind about it. He said we could stay friends," she said in a rush. Jon didn't seem surprised; she wondered if he and Pypar had discussed it.

"...Are you alright?" 

"Yeah," she said after a moment. She got up from the bench; it was almost time for class, anyway. "I told him he had crossed too many lines...and he agreed that he had," she marveled. "I thought—well, I don't know what I thought." 

"He's a good person," Jon agreed. He rubbed the back of his neck. "You're alright?" he asked again, and she found herself smiling. 

"Yes, I really am. I didn't think I would be, but... it's so...normal," she marveled, shaking her head. "Just a breakup. He understood why I was upset, and he was polite, and let me talk. He didn't freak out, or do anything—" 

Jon was staring at her now. 

"You thought he would _do_ something?" he asked slowly. 

"Well, of course I knew he would be fine," she corrected hastily, but it was too late. Jon's grey eyes were piercing her. "He's a good person; I didn't mean it like that. That just came out wrong. Obviously. I just thought—well, I don't know what I thought. Forget it. I made that sound weird," she blustered. He was still staring at her. 

"No, you didn't," he said. "It didn't sound weird. It sounded pretty clear, actually." 

He exhaled, looking away. From here, they could already hear students traipsing toward the dining halls, or toward their evening lectures. Class would start soon. "You'd better go," he realized. 

"Yeah." They began walking. "Sorry. For that. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable." 

"You didn't," Jon said plainly. They reached her building, and they faced each other now. He seemed like he was searching for words. "Remember that creep in Greyjoys?" he asked suddenly.

"Of course!" She couldn't help but laugh, and she watched, with secret pleasure, as Jon tried not to laugh with her. "You froze him out so efficiently. I'd never forget it. Why?" 

Jon paused, and when he looked at her, there was no frost in his eyes. 

"You already stand taller than you did then," he said quietly. "Anyway. Good luck with class; hopefully they stay awake." And all too quickly, he was walking away, putting his headphones on. Sansa watched him go, stricken, and was in a fog for the rest of class.


	8. Eggnog, Part I

"You're distracted." 

Jon looked up from his cheese sandwich. Mormont's head was cocked, his gingery brows arched expectantly. "Even less of a conversationalist than usual. Marsh's latest work isn't going to insult itself, Snow!" He waved the printout in Jon's face, but deflated when Jon only managed to force a perfunctory half-smile. "Must I do everything around this place?" he grumbled, setting it aside. 

"You know I spend a few days thinking about a paper before I discuss it," Jon reminded him. In truth, he hadn't read the paper yet. He had opened the link from Marsh's email and had stared, unseeing, at his computer screen, but had continued ruminating on the words that had been consuming him for a week now. He had thought of little else for days, running over the words in his mind again and again.

_He didn't freak out, or do anything— _

Anyone with half a brain could discern that Sansa had been through something—something sad, something likely violent. And though Jon knew that it was entirely none of his business, he had found himself awake at night thinking of it, turning it over in his mind, remembering every little detail of their encounter. It had brought to light what he had suspected; had crystallized all of his concerns. He had even Googled Sansa, and then had rapidly closed the window and deleted his history, sensing a profound but subtle betrayal on his part. It was none of his business, but—

—_But nothing_, he reminded himself fiercely. There was nothing else to it. Like everyone, Sansa had a past, and if she so chose to divulge it, he would be honored to listen. But until she invited him into her past, he did not belong in it. He had no right to speculate, no right to investigate. So why couldn't he let it go? He had already suspected that something had harmed her, but until that moment, it had been more of an instinct that had felt paranoid and foolish. Now it seemed like an animal let loose in a house, stalking from room to room until he trapped it. 

Except it wasn't his business. It was her animal to trap, and she likely already had trapped it. It was none of his business, and all of his worst inclinations—the white knight complex that everyone laughed at him for—were being tested. _He didn't freak out, or do anything. _

_Do _what_, Sansa? _he could not stop thinking. _What were you afraid that he might do?_

"Have you been dating?" 

Jon choked on his sandwich and looked back at Mormont. 

"What? No," he rasped, hitting his chest and coughing. Mormont pursed his lips together and set about cutting up his chicken with military precision. "It hasn't even been a semester since Val and I ended things," he added, feeling strangely defensive. 

"Funny how we all measure time in semesters," Mormont mused, spearing a piece of chicken and studying it with a philosophical air. "And you're not getting any younger. Soon you'll be a lonely old man, with nothing but your books and your bike."

"That is inappropriate," Jon countered, "and none of your business." 

"What's Snow on about now?" Marsh asked, joining them at the table with a tray of re-heated lunch. 

"Your utter failure as a scholar," Mormont said casually as he raked through his green beans, though Marsh only snorted. "I told him that was cruel to say. We all have our contributions," Mormont continued with a sigh, "but Snow is harsher than I."

Normally, Jon was charmed by their light bickering, but today he didn't care. He kept seeing Sansa's face, kept seeing the relief in her eyes, as she had revealed that Pypar had not done anything in reaction to the breakup. It was so subtle a thing, yet it haunted him. The words had come out by accident; she had not wanted him to know, and now he could not stop wondering if _anyone_ at all knew. 

She was a grown woman. If she wanted to tell someone, she would. Everyone saw therapists these days; surely she had one and was working through it, whatever she had been through. Surely she had friends to confide in... 

... Right? 

Sansa always seemed to be alone. Indeed, the only friends he knew about were the ones she had made through him and Pypar. Maybe she was just private, or maybe she didn't like bringing up people that he did not know—_or,_ maybe she was isolated and alone. Maybe she had moved to Winter Town to leave behind an old life; maybe she had not brought anything, even friends, into this new life. 

It was none of his business what she had been through, but what if she had no one to talk to about it? What if she had no one she trusted? The look in her eyes and the relief in her voice had not been of someone who felt safe and secure.

He felt even more ridiculous for the drama that had unfolded between the three of them, in the face of this. _He didn't freak out, or do anything. _

The words had leaked out. It had been a confession. And he had been cautious around Sansa, avoiding her in order to avoid doing something impulsive, something out of desire—but what if she had been trying to reach out? What kind of person was he if he dismissed it? Maybe she hadn't been trying to reach out, maybe the words had meant nothing... But what if they had? 

_Fuck it. _He dropped his sandwich. He knew what he had to do, and he had been indecisive and avoidant for long enough. If he continued to avoid Sansa, knowing what he knew, he was even more selfish than Pypar. 

"You didn't even finish your sandwich!" Mormont protested as Jon rose from the bench. 

"Not hungry," Jon dismissed. "See you all later." 

Jon left the cafeteria, deftly hiding behind a pillar to avoid a few of his sillier students, and then strode across campus. The daylight was grey, and the air biting. The golden sunshine of autumn was fading, and soon there would be snow. For a while now, the winter holidays had been about social obligations, and balancing Val's life with his own; sitting at tables draped in white linen, making stilted conversation with her relatives, and wondering when he could go home. For the first time the holidays were open to him, more or less to do as he pleased. He had been looking forward to the time alone, going for long walks in the snow, or catching up on reading. 

As he strode toward Sansa's office, he wondered if she would be similarly alone. 

Sansa's office was on the second floor of an older building. He wasn't sure of her schedule, but that was better. This had to be casual and organic, or else it would take on a romantic sheen. And Sansa did not need more romantic drama. She needed a friend. 

He paused just before her office. Her door was open, and a shaft of lamplight was painting gold across the gleaming hardwood floor. He had spent months avoiding her when possible, or else delighting in their snatches of time together, as he had when he had driven her home. Now he was abandoning all of that. It was a choice he knew he had to make, because to befriend Sansa would be to let go of that flutter of hope and longing, to relinquish the way something in his soul moved when he met her eyes. So long as he avoided her, he was keeping alive the possibility that things could become romantic between them. But in _that_ moment, Sansa had not been reaching for romance. She had been reaching for understanding, for trust. He was nearly certain of it. 

If he was going to reach back, he would have to make it clear that there was no possibility of romance between them. He would have to make it clear that he had not seen an opportunity, in that moment that she had revealed something to him. 

He would have to friend-zone himself. 

So he drew in a breath, and leaned into her office. Her office was tidy, with a stack of neatly-labeled folders next to her, and something faintly floral lingered in the air that he refused to inhale too deeply. _Friendzone,_ he reminded himself.

"Hey." He cleared his throat. 

"Jon," she said, looking up from her laptop, flushing slightly. She had been deep in thought, he could tell. He told himself he did not notice how her light blue sweater was precisely the color of her eyes, because friends didn't notice things like that. "What a surprise!" she greeted, closing her laptop. 

"I need your help," he blurted. 

He ought to have planned this better. His neck grew hot as she studied him, waiting for an explanation. "I've been—um—tricked into decorating my department. For the holidays," he added lamely. 

It was an utter lie—after Halloween, Mormont had apparently given up on him—but it sounded true enough, and Mormont would never out him. Jon leaned against the doorframe, shoving his hands in the pockets of his black jeans.

"You know, this almost seems like bullying," Sansa mused. 

"Yeah," Jon agreed vaguely, rubbing the back of his neck. "Anyway, I don't know anything about decorating, but if I ask Sam to do it, he'll just do it himself, and you seem like you get this stuff." 

Her flush deepened, and he watched her look away, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

"Well, I don't know about that, but I do enjoy it," she blustered. She peered at her calendar. "I was about to take a lunch break, and my next class isn't until three. I'd be happy to go with you to the shops and pick a few things up now, if you want." 

He stifled a smile. 

"Cool, yeah. We might as well go now," he said with a casual shrug. "Rip off the bandaid, and all." 

* * *

Was she sweating? Sansa shrugged into her plaid coat as Jon looked at his mobile. He seemed so at ease—almost distracted, really—but her heart was pounding. She hadn't been prepared to see him; she did not even know that he knew where her office was.

She had been thinking of their last encounter all week, and how warmly he had looked at her as he had spoken the words that she had been turning over all week. _You already stand taller than you did then_. She had not felt quite so seen in a very long time. She had sensed that Jon's eyes did not miss much, but she could not help wondering what else of her soul he had already seen. 

_Don't be ridiculous,_ she told herself, as she locked her office and they fell into step together. 

"So what did Dr. Mormont hold over your head this time?" she asked as they left the building. Jon held the door open for her, and rolled his eyes. 

"The usual," he dismissed. "More office hours, more events."

"He must be grooming you for department head," Sansa mused. She tried not to notice that he was wearing his glasses again today—she tried not to notice quite a lot of things about him, like the glimpse of his neck between his dark hair and the dark collar of his coat, or the way their elbows brushed, or the curve of his lips. 

Jon glanced at her in surprise. 

"What? No," he scoffed. "I'd be a terrible department head." 

"Would you, though?" she asked skeptically. "Your research is highly respected; you're something of a celebrity in the department; you're known as a skilled teacher," Sansa pointed out, trying to keep her voice objective and matter-of-fact. 

"Even if those were true—and they're not—I'm crap at all of those ...political... games that Mormont plays," Jon countered, holding his hand up. They had reached the edge of campus, and were facing the main street now. 

"No one starts off good at them. Besides, people seem to trust you. Maybe you'd be better than anyone specifically because you don't like those games." Jon didn't speak, and she hastened to fill the silence. "Not that I'm pushing you, or anything," she added quickly. "I suppose this is my academic side coming out, exploring an idea to its logical death." 

Jon revealed a sly grin. 

"I get it. Sometimes I forget that not everyone wants to argue a concept to death," he agreed. They turned onto the main street, the sidewalks crowded with shoppers and that singular excitement of Christmas in the air. "Maybe that's why academics stick together." 

"It's true. No one else wants to put up with us," Sansa laughed, and tried not to delight too much in Jon's soft laugh. 

"Do you, er, have a lot of non-academic friends?" Jon asked awkwardly as they parted around three mums with their sticky-fingered toddlers. 

To say no would be revealing—her only friends, these days, were Jon's friends. Margaery and the others were barely in her life anymore. Her mobile was conspicuously empty of texts save for from Sam (who really only sent links to cute videos of puppies, or invitations to various outings), or Gilly, or Arya. But to say _yes, I do,_ would be a lie. And every second that she did not reply made it all the more uncomfortable, and rendered whatever answer she gave suspect. 

"You know, a lot of my friends seemed to vanish when everyone started getting married," she dismissed, her voice a little too high. She glanced at Jon but his gaze was on the sidewalk, watching for other pedestrians. 

"Yeah, same," he said mildly. She had not actually answered his question, but he did not seem to notice. "It's not this shop, is it?" 

They had come to a rather posh stationery shop that Sansa had always loved. Its windows were crammed with elaborate and elegant Christmas decorations. 

"I love this shop," she gushed before she could stop herself. "It's worth going inside," she promised. "It's a little expensive, but it's a good place to get ideas." 

Jon held the door open for her and peered inside skeptically. 

"Sam would enjoy this so much more," he said, shaking his head. 

"Oh, come on. Don't you decorate your flat for Christmas?" she teased, brushing past him.

Inside, the shop was playing hipster covers of Christmas carols, and very well-dressed women with flawless highlights were perched around a table in the back, discussing shades of beige in hushed voices. 

"Val did," Jon admitted, turning from her to examine a stand of paper wreath kits. She couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable or not, as his back was to her, so she turned to face a display of stocking stuffers. "Before her, everyone was baffled when I finally got curtains," he added. "So, no. I've never decorated for a holiday. It never occurred to me." 

Oh, she was a twisted soul—because part of her hungered to go back to the subject of Val, even as her heart ached. 

"I always have," she admitted, instead of pushing further on the topic of Val. "It's one of my favorite things."

"Must be hard to do much in a flat," Jon mused. 

"Oh, when I had a house, it was—" she faltered as she heard Jon turn back quickly. Over her shoulder, their eyes met briefly. There was nothing odd about having once had a house, she reassured herself. She was not revealing some secret identity; at least, Jon would not know she was. "—It was easier," she finished awkwardly, and turned back to study the rubber stamp she had picked up, her nail tracing the shape of the snowman. "But more expensive." 

"And a lot of work for one person, probably," he added. A lump formed in her throat; in some ways, she had been the only person living in that house. The only human, at least. And she_ had_ always decorated alone—to not contradict him would not be to lie. 

"It was," she agreed. "Anyway, what did you have in mind?" 

"The easiest, cheapest thing possible," Jon said. "Probably not going to find that here, am I?" 

"No, but we can get inspiration, and then just go to a craft store," she promised. "Like these wreaths. We could easily replicate this." 

Jon was looking at his watch doubtfully. 

"Probably will have to do that another day," he said. Their eyes met. "You don't mind, do you? Separate trips, I mean." 

She tried to contain her joy. 

"Not at all. Like I said, I love this stuff," she said casually, and to make good on her promise, she turned and snapped a picture of a display of candy-canes cut from thick paper. "I don't have too much on this weekend, if you wanted to do it then." 

She heard Jon fiddling with his own mobile, and then snapping a few pictures on his own.

"Yeah, sounds good," he said vaguely. "I'm supposed to help Sam fix something in his kitchen, but maybe he and Gilly can come with us." 

She was glad she was faced away from him, so he could not see her face fall. 

"That would be fun," she said brightly. 


End file.
